


The Way It Must Be

by The_Erudite



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 166,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Erudite/pseuds/The_Erudite
Summary: Grima has long since been defeated, but questions are left in his wake. Is the world, and are its leaders ready for peace? A strange happening in a port town in Ylisse catches the attention of Exalt Chrom and sets the kingdom on the path of one final conflict that will lead them to discover the answers to all the challenges set before their new world. [Contains OCs carried over from "Tokens"]
Relationships: Anna/My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Azur | Inigo/Marc | Morgan, Chrom/Olivia (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Everything Changes

She ran a hand along her temple and tossed her flowing ruby hair disaffectedly over her shoulder, sighing. She hadn't had a chance to visit her mother in so long, and she was pleased with the opportunity, however, that also brought with it the chance of encountering her father. It wasn't so much that she despised him, but they were at odds, without question. Where once their family had been inseparable, she had seen herself drift apart from her father's increasingly strange and impractical beliefs as he descended into what she could only term as senility. It was unfortunate, but that was what she had decided about her father. She frowned, biting her lip, that was what she had determined about her father, who had never had anything but laughter in his eyes and warmth in his breast. The young woman shook her head, deciding that this was too much rumination and elected to move forward.

It was not a particularly distinct sort of day. Pleasant in temperature and general weather, certainly, but there was little to characterize the clouds that hung listlessly as snow white in the ocean of blue that wrapped above her. The marketplace was as loud and as frenzied as she had remembered it, complete with children scuttling along every side, scrambling up the cobblestone streets, playing and shouting, dragging younger siblings along. The young woman smiled at them, pleased by their mirth, and continued past the delicious smells of bakeries and fruit vendors only scarcely able to keep herself from being distracted from her purpose. She chose to sate herself by drinking in the color instead, and hastened her steps toward her mother's place, seeing the crimson and yellow stripes that would always signal her mother's presence, or, at least, one of her aunts'. Abruptly, she felt a smack on the outside of her thigh and turned, allowing several more of the hapless younglings to chase on another by her, shouting all the way. "Watch where you're going," she called after the little boy who hit her weakly. She didn't have much time to admonish hapless youths, and so continued on the path to her mother.

Or, at least, she might have, had she not caught a glimpse of a strange sight: ships. Now, of course, it was not so odd to see boats close ashore in so bustling a port town, but these were not boats, these were ships. Ylisse had no ships. Taking note of this strange circumstance, the young woman straightened her hair back a bit, looking over the foreign objects another minute before deciding that there was a problem, and that the best course of action was to seek out her mother as quickly as possible. Unfortunately for the young woman, no sooner had she begun to quicken her pace into a jog than had her fears been realized: she saw fire expelled from one of the great entities looming over the port. The young woman, though she chided herself in the extreme, felt no choice but to pause a moment in her sprint to watch as the first garnet streak embraced a taller building and tackled it to the ground within seconds. Once more avowed of her senses, the young woman hastened her charge to where she knew her mother would be waiting, but again the ships struck, and there were sounds of screaming. Immediately, scores of people could be seen retreating from the edge of the water, flocking away from the destruction. Soon the sounds of impact grew louder, smashing into the harbor town with vigor and ferocity, arousing another bust of screams that seared the ears as the flame did flesh. Still, the woman proceeded forward, undaunted, prepared to find death if necessary to reach her mother, or, at least, so it seemed by her dogged pursuit. Fate, it seemed, had other plans for this young woman, however, as amid the screams and developing burning as she attempted to flee, she was distracted a moment by a thunderous ripping sound. Knowing what it meant, she flung herself in the first direction that came to mind, but it would be too late: the streak of flame caught her and flung her to the ground, where her eyes fell into shock, staring as still more people scrambled out of the way, dragging children and wives by the hands until her vision faded into a dreamlike vagueness, and then she could see nothing.

The walls of Ylisse had been struck for the first time since the Plegian conflict. That was what ran through the mind of the purple-haired young man who traipsed confidently onto the street of the harbor town. Of course, now it scarcely looked much like a harbor town, but rather it was a simple pile of ashes, scorched to an arid red, as if the entire area existed on a different planet, or was constantly beset by raging lava. Looking out over the sea of raining embers and still-burning flames, the man nodded, determining that he would not blame an onlooker to believe the latter might have been true of this place. His observation was broken by a guard who saluted him, asking for orders. He pointed along the streets, "Secure any survivors; see they don't remain that way. Establish a perimeter from these ends of the harbor. And if any of you should find a man or a woman in a Plegian cloak, you are to execute him or her and bring me the head and the cloak of this person as proof." These were the young man's orders, though he knew his bounties would never be discovered. Not today, at any rate. Today was where things began in what was guaranteed to be principally a conflict of attrition. The young man smirked, it was incredibly cliché to remark that this was "only the beginning," but, in truth, there was no other way to describe it. A man with leaf-green hair and a countenance that rested somewhere between a cocky grin and a barbarous scowl as well as a pink-haired woman who by her very appearance was already fatigued of everyone and everything approached the purple-haired man, saluting him. "There you are," he nodded at his comrades, "good, come with me." They did so, and followed the purple-haired man into the streets, nearly every other square foot still aflame.

The very world was on fire. So it seemed, at least, to the ruby-haired woman as she sat up, or tried to, feeling an intense pain in her chest that instructed her to fall back down. Straining, she pushed a collapsed beam off of her, realizing that it had splintered and cut into her stomach, and also realizing that it was not one beam upon her but several. Gradually, she wormed her way out of each with the wound in her stomach throbbing and gripping her innards with every movement, until, eventually, she pushed out from underneath the mass of wood and stumbled out of the alleyway she had apparently fallen into. She mindlessly rubbed her face, unwittingly staining her palm black with the ash that had compounded on every observable surface in the vicinity. Without thought, the young woman strode forward, clutching her exposed stomach, walking aimlessly about the streets. She decided she was searching for her mother, to see if there was any chance they had somehow both survived this strange... was it an attack? She mulled the thought over as she stumbled ahead: had war come to Ylisse once more? From whom? What were the goals of this perceivably unprovoked strike on the Ylisseans? From where had the attackers come? Would she need to draw the sword as she had once forced her father to teach her? All these were questions the young woman had not previously had time to ponder as she was fleeing and searching for her mother, but now the raced around her mind and caused her head to swell and throb at the same pace as her wound, making the sensation all the more painful and nearly unbearable altogether. Still, having no other recourse, she continued on in whatever direction she had been going, clutching her chest all the while, praying that there would be some end to cease her torment. She walked through the blood-red streets, almost redundant, as the hue of the fire cast onto the burning town almost clashed with the creeks of red blood that ran along the cobblestone streets. Eventually, the woman thought to cover her nose, as she couldn't manage to travel a foot in any direction without stepping over another dead body. She tried to avert her eyes, but saw every one, their eyes open, swolen in that moment of fatal surprise. There was a kind of morbid justness about it, however, as all walks of life here found themselves in the same position: there was a noble lady and her child collapsed before a sulking beggar, there were four peasant boys crowded around a scholarly young man, and there sat a gray-haired old couple in the dirtiest of rags, just above several pairs of elegantly dressed men and women, screams still pouring out of their mute throats. The woman shook her head; these were hardly the things to call attention to. She tried to direct her thoughts to hope for her mother's survival and pressed on.

As she crossed over into the next street, she became aware of a purple-haired man walking with a pair of compatriots who were impossible to make out in the distance. He spotted her, too, and began to move forward, telling his companions to halt with a hand. The young woman could feel herself sweat. This was the time to run, but she could not bring her legs to move. She only stood helplessly as the man drew forward and, despite his orders, his companions moved up, too, though at some distance. He stopped with mere inches between himself and the young woman, pausing to let his eyes flicker as they stared into hers. He brought his fingers beneath her chin and coerced her face up so he could continue to stare. "Who are you?" he demanded in a tone that was not so gruff as the question suggested. He abandoned the thought when she took a moment to answer, "Never mind, it doesn't matter. I know who you are. And I want you to tell your father and your damned king that their era is over. The world belongs to men such as I." He released his grip on the young woman and ordered one of his compatriots forward. The young woman heard him mutter, "Kill her." One of the indistinct figures complied, drawing up on the young woman, kicking her in her pre-existing wound, causing her to slump to her knees and cough up a spurt of blood.

Despite this, she called to the purple-haired man, "W-Wait...!" Surprise, he stopped mid-stride and turned, returning to the same distance. The young woman was undaunted, "What... is your name?"

He smirked, "My name? Nihilus. Why do you wish to know?"

She choked, then barked, "So I can find you... and kill you."

He smirked again, "Oh, you are a dear. What a waste of a good woman." He walked away and allowed his men to continue their work. The same figure that had kicked the young woman drew over her, inhaled, and held a sword aloft. It glistened in the light of the falling embers and made a vicious noise as it sliced the air.

* * *

It was Frederick who was given the less-than-desirable task of reporting the news. He strode into the exalt's chambers wearing a scowl. There was much news to be relayed, but Chrom had never been much for long-winded explanations, so as the exalt rose from his throne and made his way down the stairs to meet his Knight Captain, Frederick chose to relay the most important information in one sentence: "Ylisse is under attack."

Chrom's eyes widened, but showed no fear, "I had heard whispers. When did this attack occur? What's the situation?"

"A harbor town was bombarded by sea three days ago. Few survivors left, and still fewer were interested in running all the way here to the capitol to relay that information, so we know precious little," the knight explained with a cough.

"Tell me," Chrom asked earnestly, "do we at least know our assailant?"

The knight shook his head, "Not by name, no, but spurious reports declare the ships were flying Valmese colors."

"The Valmese?" Chrom gritted his teeth, "Walhart's been out of power for over a decade, now. I had heard no word of his return."

"I'm led to believe this isn't Walhart's doing, milord," the knight rasped.

"A lot of questions and no answers in sight," Chrom sighed, "Par for the course, I suppose." The exalt paused and nodded at his lieutenant, "This would seem to call for swift retaliatory action."

"I would agree, milord," Frederick bowed, "however, we must take caution to ascertain the truth of our foe's identity, lest we go making enemies in a war that ought never to have been started in the first place."

"Sagacious as always, Sir Frederick the Wary," his old friend smiled.

"You... you won't be leaving by yourself, I hope?" wondered the exalt's wife from behind him.

"Olivia," he sighed, "this isn't a fight to be taken lightly. Anyone I bring along for this expedition is in very real danger of encountering an ambush... or worse."

"I... I've been at your side through worse," the pink-haired queen of Ylisse took on an uncommon assertiveness.

"I know that," Chrom nodded laboriously, "but that was when we were left with no choice. For now, I'd like for you to stay under protection for as long as possible."

"I don't like this, Chrom," she accepted tenuously.

"Nor I," he agreed.

"I won't let you travel all by yourself, father," Chrom heard his daughter, Lucina, emerge from within.

"Indeed, Frederick will provide ample company," Chrom nodded.

"That's not what I meant and you know it," the blue-haired girl frowned at him, "I'll accompany you."

"Lucina, I don't want you involved in whatever violence may come, here," he sighed.

"Then we'll see to it things don't come to violence," she came to a half-smirk.

The exalt shook his head, "It's out of the question."

She balled her fists, "Why is it you always try to keep me from fighting, father? You taught me the sword, I can help! For Naga's sake, let me be faithful daughter to you and just accompany you on one expedition!"

The exalt sighed with fatigue and relented, "Very well, you may come with me." She smiled and moved forward, but Chrom was not finished. He jabbed a finger at his daughter, "But don't do anything reckless! You will follow me- closely- and do exactly as I say. Am I understood?"

"Of course, father," she nodded dutifully.

"Where's your brother?" he asked his daughter but looked to his wife.

Olivia answered him, "He went to Ferox for that dignitaries' dinner, remember?"

"Right," the exalt nodded, "I wasn't certain if he was back yet. See to it he's made aware of the situation as soon as he returns, but tell him he's not to come after us."

"I'll tell him as much, but I can't guarantee a thing. Despite his... er, eccentricities, the boy holds a remarkable admiration and devotion to you, Chrom," his wife noted.

"Just keep him out of trouble as best you can," Chrom ordered.

"I always have," the queen bowed to her husband. Chrom signaled Frederick and, with his daughter in tow, they began to march out of the castle. They were joined shortly by Stahl and Sully, walking at either side of the small party.

"What's going on, Chrom?" Stahl asked first.

"Ylisse is under siege," he spat. Both knights' eyes widened, but Chrom added, "You are to tell no one of this for the time being." They nodded in affirmation.

"Ill business, to be sure," Stahl's voice wavered.

"Stahl," Chrom ordered, "I want you to speak to some of the former Shepherds and prepare them should something go wrong."

"My lord," the viridian knight saluted, accepting a list from his commander before heading off.

"Sully, I only need you to see out one individual. I think you remember his name," Chrom waved a sheet of paper in front of the crimson knight.

"How could I forget?" she stared at it, taking it from him.

"Last I'd heard, he'd taken up residence in the plains to the northwest of Southtown. Ask around for him there," the exalt ordered.

"All due respect, sir," she looked up from the page, "Why not have me'n Stahl split the workload on the former Shepherds?"

"This one," he placed his finger on the man's name, "Is imperative to find. You ought to know very well why."

"I understand," she bowed, taking leave of him.

Lissa and her son sat in a nearby corner, overhearing the conversation. "This does not bode well," the young man at the princess's side observed simply.

"No kidding," she replied similarly. Staring at her brother another moment, Lissa inhaled, "Owain, I need something done, but I'm not really in the physical shape to see to it."

"Only tell me, o mother," he beamed, "Your loyal son shall complete the formidable deed for you."

"I know you will, Owain," she giggled at her boy, "I need you to take a letter. See the address?" She pointed to it.

He nodded, comprehending the implication, "Thy will be done, mother."

She held his shoulder before he could turn away, "Wait a bit. Don't let your uncle see you leave."

* * *

A lone figure wandered the rock-red streets, swearing that they were still ablaze despite the ample time to cool off. He shook his head as he walked, one hand never leaving the hilt of his axe. Things would begin to happe quickly, and he needed to act as soon as possible. He began to look over the bodies at his feet, and, to the greatest of happenstance, quickly found what he was looking for. He knelt down and picked up the ruby-haired young woman, carrying her away as hastily as he could.


	2. Red Sun

Like breathing for the first time, the young woman felt herself sit up.

"Oh, Naga be praised, you're alive!" remarked a stunned but soft voice from the corner of the room. She identified its source immediately, though her vision was obscured by the shafts of pale daylight spearing the windows.

"Father Libra? What am I... how did I get here?" she scanned the room.

"Why, I brought you here," said the cleric with a faint smile, "Or did you mean 'how did you survive?' Because that I can't answer."

"Why did you bring me here?" she grasped her shoulder as it ached.

"I was out on the streets searching for survivors following that attack. Thank the gods I found you among them," he paced about the room a bit.

The young woman lifted an eyebrow, "You expressed surprise that I was alive when I first got up. You weren't looking for survivors. Tell me the truth: why did you recover me from that... battleground?"

His cheek pulled tautly at the corner of his mouth, "Perceptive as always. I... I must admit, you are correct, I was searching only for you. I saw you going into town earlier and when I heard about the attack... your father, for all he gave us, doesn't deserve to hear that his daughter's body was lost under a pile of ashes. I hope you and Naga both can forgive me my cowardice."

"Your fear is understandable, Father Libra," said the young woman cooly, "I certainly don't blame you for it." Saying this, she got up from the bed and cracked her neck.

"Are you going somewhere?" Libra inquired fearfully.

"Certainly. I'm going to let my father know his daughter isn't dead and to tell him that we need to rally up," the redheaded woman explained, tightening her boots.

"You can't go out there!" argued the blond cleric, "Who knows what those bloodthirsty mercenaries are up to now!"

"You suppose they're mercenaries?" she craned her neck back from the doorway of the modest house.

Libra pondered the question a moment before clicking his lips, "I must certainly hope so. If I am mistaken it would mean... Ylisse would be at war."

"Precisely why I need to find my father," the young woman decided, stroking a lock of her long hair back, briefly scowling at a patch that had been burnt to cinders.

"Will you at least swear not to do anything to endanger yourself?" implored the cleric. The woman opposite him said nothing and raised her eyebrows at him. "Oh, for..." he sighed, shaking his fist a bit, "At the very least, don't do anything rash."

She smiled slyly, mostly to herself, "I don't think I'm capable of rashness anymore, my father drilled it out of me."

"May Naga keep you," Libra prayed, "Morgan."

"Thank you, Father Libra. I wish you safety as well. Are you certain you'll be all right remaining so close to the attack?" wondered Morgan.

He nodded with an assured laugh, "This will be my penitence for failing to protect the other innocents in this bloodletting."

"Father Libra..." her face fell.

"Do not concern yourself with me, my child. I trust in Naga's will to give unto me what I am owed. Nothing more nor less," Libra shook his head, exhaling.

Morgan nodded and walked out of the doorway, shutting the creaking oak door behind her, allowing out a cloud of dust. She straightened her hair once more and continued forward.

* * *

"Father, you look so terribly grave," Lucina commented, raising her brow at the profile of the man that hadn't seemed to blink in well over an hour.

"War's not an exciting prospect to me these days, dear," he sighed, "but we have to be prepared if we must."

"We will be," the young blue-haired woman nodded at her father, smiling despite herself. Her father had told her so many tales of his battles in the days before she had come along. It certainly wasn't a subject about which he tended to prevaricate. Now, he was stone-faced and mute on the topic when it seemed the most pertinent. Lucina shrugged and kept marching alongside her father.

"It may be wise to prepare yourself, milord. We'll be entering the city shortly," provided Frederick, staring into the horizon.

"We'll be ready, Frederick," Chrom nodded at his comrade, clearing his throat.

"Will anyone else be joining us, father?" Lucina wondered, looking down to the hilt of her sword.

"No," he coughed, "small parties will be better for the moment. We don't wish to appear interested in war. We're only here for parley."

"Do you suppose the assailants feel the same?" Lucina frowned at her father.

"Lucina, keep it in check. We need to maintain level heads to prevent this from escalating into anything more devastating," the exalt growled.

"Even after they slaughtered a city full of innocents?" his daughter returned in the same tone.

"Lucina!" her father called, "We need to speak to them first, if nothing else. If we decide we need to retaliate, we'll do as much, but until then, enough!"

Lucina's eyes widened, and she dropped her face, "Yes, father." They proceeded through the initial block of commercial buildings, most of which had been spared the damage. As the small party continued, however, the devastation became more apparent, their eyes becoming filled with the dying ghosts of raging blazes and the scarlet-stained streets and walls, finding more crumbling and dilapidated structure as they marched wordlessly on.

It didn't take long for the party to arrive upon a man who walked the streets, dressed in an onyx robe. He wore a cowl that seemed to disguise his face, but the party could see a sort of sparkle in his eye as they seemed to catch his attention. He walked forward to meet them, "Damn me... if it isn't the exalt himself."

"And who are you, sir?" Chrom asked neutrally, bringing himself and his compatriots to a halt.

"I am called Lord Datura, sir," the man tilted his head to bow, "I suppose you are here to speak with those responsible for orchestrating the events that brought this city to ruin."

"That I am," the exalt nodded, tightening his expression.

"In that case, we should begin conversing," the ghost of a smile tugged at Datura's face.

"You mean you claim responsibility?" Chrom raised an eyebrow.

"I do, for this instance, at least," he shut his eyes.

"What do you mean 'this instance?'" Lucina chimed in.

"Exalt Chrom," Datura introduced formally, "Allow me to begin explaining your situation. You are now at the mercy of my men: ships are prepared to lay siege to all the remaining towns along the western coast of Ylisse, Plegia, and Regna Ferox. Further garrisons will be present on the eastern coasts in less than a week."

Chrom gritted his teeth, "You... expect us to take you at your word on that?"

He smiled beneath his cowl, "You are welcome to ignore my warning and allow the soldiers to devastate your nation."

"What is it you and your 'men' want?" Chrom crossed his arms.

"Oh, many things, exalt," the man chuckled to himself, "but, among them... I would like to request your resignation as exalt."

"What?" he scoffed, "Why? Do you so desperately wish my sister to have the position?"

He smiled once more, "Oh, no. Not at all. In truth, Exalt Chrom, the opinion of my men is that no one in the ruling family should own that throne any longer."

"Speak clearly, or not at all," commanded Frederick, leering at the man.

The man lowered his face and murmured, "Exalt Chrom, you fail to understand… let me be very clear: I do not desire _any_ member of your royal family to hold the throne of Ylisse, now or ever more."

Chrom started and prepared to draw his blade, "That makes things quite clear, I suppose. Tell me, though, why does Valm wish harm upon Ylisse? We saved your continent from the brink of ruin!"

"You saved nothing!" growled Datura, a swath of his chrome hair dropping out from beneath his cowl, "...But do not mistake me, I am not your adversary."

"Not my adversary? You said you meant to kill me!" the exalt rolled his eyes.

The man gave up his chuckling and laughed outright, "You still fail to understand. It does not matter."

"Enough of this!" Lucina railed, "Have at you, dastard!" The princess leapt at the man in the cowl, but felt her wrist apprehended, as well as a solid sensation on the back of her head that caused her to collapse.

"Now, we can't have that, can we?" mused Lord Datura, his enormous and broad-shouldered subordinate sidling beside him.

"Lucina!" Chrom shouted after his fallen daughter, "I'll kill you myself!" Much like Lucina, Chrom leapt forward, careful this time to evade the large man and take a broad swipe at the man beneath the cowl. The exalt was faster than Datura had expected, and he cut a ruby streak across the man's cheek, causing him to double back.

Withdrawing his somewhat bloodied hand, the man beneath the cowl only smirked once more, "Now that's an act of war if I've ever seen one." Snapping his fingers, Datura motioned for his subordinate to attack the exalt. Chrom backed up and prepared his weapon, but it didn't seem to matter, in an instant, the mountain of a man was upon him and disarmed him as if plucking a bug from his hair. Chrom tried to thrust Falchion at the hulk, but he only grabbed the blade, letting it cut into his hands and tossed it away, punching the blue-haired man in the face for good measure. Then a burning sensation affected the enormous man's back.

"Forget about me?" Frederick taunted, wedging his lance back out of the monster's side.

"Certainly not," replied Lord Datura with a sneer as a bolt of vicious purplish gas consumed the knight in an instant. Frederick fell to his knees and coughed as the cloud obscured his vision and tightened and set afire his esophagus.

"Damn you!" grunted Chrom, still in the grip of Datura's subordinate, "Truly, what is your purpose?!"

"That look on your face, Exalt Chrom… the scowl of pain, confusion, and, above all… defeat… That is, in truth, my purpose," Datura laughed to himself, then sighed, "Now, I was hoping this wouldn't have to come to violence, but you forced my hand. I suppose all that I can do now is allow the invasion to proceed so that your nation can be ravaged."

"Why?" Chrom choked, "You have me, isn't that what you want? Why must you attack the innocent?"

A glimmer caught in Lord Datura's eyes, "Are you willing to… volunteer yourself, exalt?"

"If it'll keep you from harming my people, yes, I'll do as you ask," the exalt sighed, short of breath.

"Then I suppose the invasion could be postponed for… oh, perhaps a week, maybe a month, so long as you are complicit," the man beneath the cowl smiled to himself.

"Milord…!" Frederick endeavored to caution him, sputtering in the cloud, losing consciousness.

"Don't trouble yourself with it, Frederick. I've made my decision. We have to… be ready," Chrom assured himself, swallowing.

"I understand," Frederick growled.

"Then I believe we're finished here," concluded the man beneath the cowl. He called to his subordinate and they traipsed away. Frederick was released from the cloud, but couldn't be kept from fading into blackness.

* * *

Sully stood at the door and rapped on it lightly. She could hear noise from within and waited a moment as sounds were made approaching the door. She looked aside as it took a minute longer than she had expected, glancing casually at the abandoned space. After that moment had passed, however, the door cracked open, and from it emerged a face. It was a face that Sully scarcely recognized, more wrinkled than could have been predicted, with deep purple and black ridges beneath the eyes, dead capillaries practically a feature. The eyes, now appearing almost gold, flashed on seeing her and a small smile crawled across the lips, which seemed to have only recently been adorned with a small mustache and beard, one that clung to either side of the lips, and dropped to the chin, where it was apparently shaved to a halt. This, too, was an unexpected color: silvery, as if covered with frost. Looking up, Sully realized that this, too, was the color of the hair of the man who bore it.

"Sully. What brings you this far out?" the man asked, his throat needing to be cleared.

"Robin… that's you, right?" she raised an eyebrow at him.

He laughed, "Do I really look that old? Ha… damn me."

"Er, sorry, what I meant to say was," Sully coughed, "Sir Robin, Ylisse is in need of your assistance once more."

"Did they rein you in that much, Sully? Come on, you know you don't have to talk to me like that. Where's the Sully I know?" egged the former tactician.

"Robin, if ya'd shut yer mouth for a minute, I have somethin' pretty important I hafta say," the redheaded knight grumbled.

"That's more like it," Robin smiled, "What's the news?"

"Ylisse has been attacked," her face fell into concern.

"I know," Robin shrugged.

"You know? And you were just sitting here?!" Sully railed.

Robin leered at her with amusement, "I don't think I'm going to be much help in war anymore, Sully. No sense in going off half-cocked to twist my ankle or hurt my hip on some march and act like I'm the greatest man in the world."

"Still, you didn't even think to talk to Chrom?" Sully couldn't let the issue go.

"Chrom is… a long way from here," the former tactician coughed, "and, recently… I don't make many journeys." Sully regarded her silvery-haired former strategist and began to notice the fatigue in his eyes and the harshness of his stare. "Now, it's getting cold out," he muttered, "do you have something to discuss, or did you come here expressly to waste my time and chastise me?"

Sully sighed, "Robin… I came to tell ya'… 'cause Morgan was in town when they attacked."

The former tactician's eyes widened, "…M-Morgan?"

Sully nodded.

Robin stared at the floor and heaved a sigh. Without another word he tugged at the collar of his old Plegian cloak which had seemed to grow darker with age and draped the cowl over his head. He pushed past Sully and out the door.

"Now where are you goin'?" Sully walked after him.

"First, to find my daughter," he growled, "then I'll speak with Chrom if I have time."

"If you have time?" Sully repeated insinuatingly.

"Yes, if I have time!" the former tactician barked an echo once more, "And if you're wise, you won't distract me from my purpose." Sully stood in silence as Robin strode slowly away from the house. There was certainly no arguing with that man. She looked back and noticed he had left a fire burning in the house's small fireplace.

[…]

Anna picked herself up, wiping the dust from her clothes. She had been stranded out here for two days without word from anyone. While she had waited out the attack, a mercenary had drifted into her hiding place. Having no other choice, she had dispatched the man as silently as quickly and silently as she was able, but to avoid giving herself away, she had to leave the corpse nearby. The stench of death that choked the room and mob of flies that surrounded the pile of flesh were now unbearable, and Anna was running low on food and had next to no water. She would have to make her escape now, she decided, but where to go? The nearest village was at least twelve miles due east. She shook her head, that would be her only choice. Inhaling and holding her breath, she hazarded a glance outside the collapsed structure in which she had tucked herself away. Seeing the coast clear, she softly stepped outside.

Daylight was scalding to her retinas when she moved forward into the break of day. The place now looked less like a war zone, as when she had first observed the chaos, but now appeared more to be silent and still, like a memorial site. A gray-and-brown, dusty mass grave of some tens of thousands of men, women, and children. Anna grimaced. She had been in war, but at least some parts of war had been civil. Whatever this was, it wasn't something she was used to. Anna pulled her hand down her face and wiped the sleep from her eyes, then touched her hair to determine whether or not it was at least salvageable. Satisfied, she exhaled and moved forward: it was going to be a long march.

* * *

Stahl sidled up on the ridge and called his horse to a halt, looking over the house. He was disturbed: another party was gathered in front of the small earthen building, rapping on the door and calling for something. Wondering what the problem could be, he rode down around the ridge and approached the group: two men and a woman, all of them wearing strange clothing and scowls.

"Excuse me," Stahl called at them in his most authoritative voice, "I'm a knight of Ylisse. Is there a problem here?"

"No, no problems sir," prevaricated one of the men, "we just need to have a word with our tenant." He indicated the door.

"Your tenant? You own this land?" Stahl put a hand above his eyes to block out the sun and survey the area.

"'Sright," nodded the second man, "and all we want to do is have a little chat about payment, nothin' serious."

"Maybe I should talk to her for you?" Stahl offered, preparing to step in the way of the door.

"Aw, lands' sakes, just kill him!" ordered the first man, hucking a knife at the surprised viridian knight. It grazed his arm and drew blood, but Stahl was undaunted.

"The hell're you doing, you idiot?!" barked the woman standing in back.

"Bad move," reported Stahl, producing his sword.

"Dammit, Kel'din," scolded the woman, "Attack!"

The three rushed Stahl all at once. The knight recognized that he was less limber now than he once had been, but could detect that these troops were amateurs; no trouble. The first, the one that had been called Kel'din leapt at him with an overhead slash. Stahl blocked the strike with ease and, flexing a bit of muscle, followed up with a swipe that knocked the blade from his adversary's hand.

The other man thrust his blade straight at Stahl's midsection. Stahl only grinned and turned slightly to make the man miss his mark. Stahl brought his blade down on the man's spine as he sailed by, carried by the momentum of his attack.

Stahl now realized why the woman had stood in the back as she trained an arrow between his eyes. Without another thought, Stahl dropped himself flat to the ground, the projectile managing only to let a few olive locks of hair part from Stahl's head. From that position, Stahl rolled toward the woman and kicked to sweep her off her feet. When she had fallen, he brought his blade down onto her chest.

Kel'din had watched his comrades dispensed before him, and so screamed and fled for his life. Stahl stood an watched, panting, deciding he wasn't worth the pursuit. "I don't think I'm cut out for un-mounted combat," Stahl chuckled to himself, wiping his brow.

Apparently hearing the silence, a blonde woman with an indefatigable air of nobility opened the door slowly, then pushed it all the way when she saw the Shepherd, "Stahl! My word, are you harmed?"

"They just nicked my arm," Stahl sighed, gripping it, "Agh!"

The woman pushed his hand away, staring at the wound, which looked purplish. "Poison, the rapscallions," muttered the woman, "Let me fetch my staff."

"Thanks, Maribelle," Stahl stifled a groan as he held the wound in pain.


	3. The Mentor's Return

Morgan brushed the hair out of her face. She couldn't believe how bad things had gotten in just a few days since she'd left. The area around her father's home was positively blanketed in snow despite only being slightly frozen when last she left it. That the winter was this bad was troubling for her. Regardless, she pressed on through the snow, which pulled and gripped her ankles as she suffered to struggle through it, until she reached the threshold of her father's home. She pushed the wooden door softly open only to discover that no one was inside. She knew that instantly, as her father wouldn't dare be in the house in this sort of cold with no fire lit.

Wiping the snow off her shoes and pants, Morgan walked into the small hallway and sighed. Where might he have gone at a time like this? It was completely illogical. Despite knowing better, she trudged up the groaning staircase toward the warmth of her father's bedroom, though that warmth had been sapped out quickly. She sat down on the cushy, but broken bed and thought to herself. Where would her father go? Mother was scheduled to be back sometime this evening, and he certainly wouldn't leave her mother, of all people, out to dry. No, they clearly loved each other far too much for that. Morgan looked around the room for some kind of a hint, whereupon her attention was caught by a conspicuous piece of canvas buried in the back corner of the room. Shrugging, Morgan got up and pulled at the object, finding it slightly larger than expected. She laughed softly to herself as she recalled it, now. It was a portrait of her that her father had comissioned when she turned sixteen. She chuckled as she recalled how she had hated having to sit still for the whole process, how she had barked at her father for forcing her to sit there all that time... She couldn't argue with the result, however: it was a fine painting.

Now something else distracted Morgan: a piece of parchment and an inkwell sat on a desk tucked away in another corner of the room. She approached this, too, and read her father's messy, lightning-quick handwriting:

_Dec. 3,_

_Fourteen logs remaining for the fireplace._

_Anna due to return tomorrow._

_Snow falling. Might get up to eight inches. Find extra blankets for Anna._

_Gods' sake... Damn me. Sully told me the forces that attacked Ylisse struck where Morgan was headed. Going to the capital to find out what the hell I'm going to do, and what Chrom is planning. Hope to every god there is it's you reading this, Anna, Morgan._

_Thirteen logs._

Morgan looked up from the page with a grimace. That figured. Well, there was nothing to be done about it: she had to make her way to Ylisstol. The trip would be long, and, in this whether, it would be cold, but she was going to find her father and get a plan of attack sorted out, end of story.

She dipped her father's pen in the inkwell and scribbled a single word onto the page: "Seen. -M"

* * *

"...and that is why I, the great and powerful Master Owain of Ylisse have brought yon sacred parchment to the battle-scarred palmsof the most ferocious and indefatigable Khan Lon'qu!" Owain exclaimed with finality, posing majestically.

"That'll do," the newer West Khan dismissed the excitable lad, "So, you mean to say Ylisse wishes to employ my aid, and thusly that of all Regna Ferox?"

"That is most incontrovertibly correct, my magnanimous fellow royalty! My mother appeared to fear that her brother, my most unimpeachable and relentlessly powerful Unlce Chrom, would be too proud to ask for your aid himself in such an event, and so I have most scrupulously been called upon to circumvent the exalt and extend this wish myself, which I believe I have done with the utmost alacrity!" he continued to report.

"Gods above, cut the theatrics, boy," commanded the khan, "tell your mother that, despite the strong bond between myself and the people of Ylisse, I cannot at this time provide the aid for which you are asking."

Owain's face fell, "What? But... why?"

Lon'qu shook his head, "Ironically, I must answer in the same way Khan Flavia did many years ago to your uncle: I lack the authority. Regna Ferox has changed over the past few decades, boy. We've kept our warrior tradition, no doubt, but people don't just want cold and killing anymore, they want real results, a world that they can raise their children in. As such, splinter groups have been threatening the power of the Khans for the last five years, at least, and I'm at odds on a number of issues with my eastern counterpart. I can do nothing for Ylisse except to wish them the best at this point in time."

"That's... lame," grunted Owain, unable to muster a more grandiose reply.

"Indeed," Lon'qu sighed, "Now, if there's nothing further..."

"R-Right..." Owain stuttered, "I'll, uh, go tell my mom. I mean, er, I shall report thy most impactful and significantly devastating information to mine noble mother, whereupon we shall elect a course of action and divine a reply to-"

"Just go," ordered the khan with an exhale.

* * *

"Halt!" ordered the young man, decked out in gold armor, standing before the gate, "you can't just waltz in here!"

The cloaked man stopped in his tracks and waited, saying nothing.

"Show some respect!" ordered a man's voice from behind the guards, "Don't you have any idea who that is?"

"G-General Kellam!" the young man who had spoken jumped, "I... um, we didn't see you there! And, er, incidentally, no, I don't think I know this man. Should I?"

"Don't bother with them, Kellam," Robin pulled the hood off of his head, "stories about an old fossil like me will never have reached boys like them."

"Old?" Kellam scoffed good-naturedly, "You're still younger than I am, Robin."

"True," he sighed, "but I haven't been near Ylisstol anywhere near as much as you."

"Also true," Kellam nodded in reply. He turned to the guard, "What are you waiting for? Step aside. That man is the Grandmaster of Ylisse."

"The... What? Did you just say... Oh, gods! He's wearing a Plegian cloak! That's the man!" the soldier bowed before Robin, "P-Please forgive me my indiscretions, master."

Robin said nothing and sidestepped the grovelling man. As Robin proceeded into the castle halls, he looked to each side to note the Ylisseans were each bowing before him, as the guard in front of the hall had done. He watched them carefully as he sauntered up to the throne. When he had reached it, the soldiers all stood behind him, as if they had expected him to take a seat upon it. He turned to address Kellam, who had been walking alongside me, "Why do the knights act like this?"

"You're a hero, a legend, even, to all of them, Robin," he resolved, "They only desire a moment to bask in the light of your existence."

Robin shook his head, "There is no such luminscence to be found here. Only a darkness that encroaches upon more with each passing moment." Kellam looked at the former tactician somberly.

"Robin, it's... well... it's good to see you again," Lissa nodded to him from her brother's throne.

"Too right," Robin bowed, "A pleasure, Lissa."

Lissa raised an eyebrow, "Where is Sully? I was under the impression that she was sent to bring you here."

A snarling Sully shoved open the castle gates, releasing a strike of frigid air at just that moment. She marched forward and grabbed Robin by the collar, "What the hell were you thinkin', disappearin' like that, you wise-ass?"

"I'm Chrom's friend, not his mutt. I don't need a keeper," he growled at the redheaded cavalier. She released him, angry, but clearly not moreso than he.

"That aside..." Lissa begged to digress, "Robin, I'm certain you know why you're here."

"Ylisse is under attack. That's why you want me here, at least," he rubbed his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry about Morgan and Anna..." Lissa bit her lip.

"Don't apologize. The dead don't apologize, so we have no reason to return the favor," he grumbled.

"I didn't mean to imply..." Lissa's face fell, "I hope with everything that is within me that they're still alive, Robin."

"I lost everything once. I've always been prepared for a moment like this," the disgruntled former tactician shut his eyes and tapped his foot expectantly.

"With all that said," Lissa shook her head, "I was wondering if you'd give Ylisse the most gracious benefit of your assistance again."

"You sound a bit like your son, being so formal," Robin grunted in laughter, "I'll help you, under the caveat that you understand that anything concerning my family takes priority for my part."

"I can accept that," Lissa agreed, "I would feel the same, given your position."

"But you're not in my position," he threw out, turning his back, "False empathy is a sickening trait, princess. Don't pick it up."

Lissa remained silent watching him walk toward the door.

When Robin had made it back outside, Sully hurried forward to accompany him again, "So, here's the deal: We're going to catch up with Chrom, who went into the site of the first attack two days ago. There aren't many of us to escort you, but Stahl's rounding up the rest of the Shepherds we can find and bringin' 'em to the same place, where we'll all rendez-vous and figure out what we're doin'."

"I understand," he declared curtly, eyes shut.

"Well, then it looks like your escort is all here," Sully announced as a clanking sound emerged from within the castle, "Heya, honey."

"Mother, please, must you call me that on-duty?" Kjelle frowned.

"How's she going to keep pace with us?" Robin gestured with a thumb.

"She's a lot better at riding than you might remember," Sully smirked with confidence as her daughter mounted up, "Incidentally, you'll be riding with her."

"No volition to move on my own? Is that how little you trust me, Sully?" he replied with a disbelieving smirk.

"Hey, you made your bed when you ran away from me, genius. Now you gotta sleep in it," she called her horse to the ready, "Now, saddle up. We don't have all day."

"You certainly don't," called a voice from before the castle gates. It had taken the small escort this long to realize that the guards before the gate were collapsed into pools of their own blood. A man with blue hair addressed them.

"Gods damn it," Robin sighed, rolling his eyes, "I really don't have the patience for this sort of thing."

"Don't worry, old timer. I'll be sure to make it quick, then," the blue-haired man offered a menacing grin.

"Kjelle, back inside. Get Lissa outta here," her mother ordered. The junior knight complied without a second thought.

"You're not going to get anywhere," the man opposite the small party shrugged, "Like chickens with their heads removed, you all fail to realize that you're already dead."

"Sully," Robin commanded, "how did rogues get this far? I thought there were perimeter guards every fifty meters extending out from the castle in any given direction."

"Oh, I can assure you there _were_ ," the man laughed, "an army has a way of causing trouble, though, you know."

"Army?" Robin scoffed, "What army?"

"This one," the blue-haired man raised his arm. A chorus of voices chanted in unison behind him. Robin strained his eyes to see an ocean of soldiers in a rainbow of clothing over the hillside.

"How did no one see these men approaching?!" the former tactician snarled in Sully's general direction.

"Hell if I know!" she barked back.

"Oh, it's not your fault. Even the greatest tactician can't be prepared for every little circumstance, can he?" mocked the blue-haired man.

"Enough with the irritating bravado," Robin rolled his eyes, "who are you? Are you with the assailants who struck Ylisse two days ago?"

"Yes and no," the man opposite them recounted, "We share a similar means to our individual ends, and that's about it. As for me..." The blue-haired man produced a silver axe from his side and lifted it onto his shoulder, "Mine name is Arc. Folks have taken to calling me the 'Tenebrous Hero.'"

Robin sighed, "You damn mercenaries and your bloody nicknames... What will it take to get you to leave, Arc?"

"A couple more corpses and a job well done, I should think," Arc nodded.

"That's what I was afraid of," Robin sighed, producing a sword from within his cloak.

"Robin, the hell do you think you're doin'?" Sully reprimanded, "You can hardly walk!"

"I don't need to walk, I need to fight," the former tactician acknowledged, setting his stance.

"Ha!" the Tenebrous Hero smiled, "Shame I've gotta kill you. You seem like my kinda guy."

"Yes, I've seen your sort before," Robin smirked, "Leader, big hero to all his men, revered by them all... I'm sure there are plenty of men who are 'your kinda guy.'"

"Cute," growled Arc, "now let's hear you say that when I split your skull in half." He leapt forward into a mighty swing with the axe that Robin only narrowly managed to dodge. The former tactician responded by bringing his knee into his adversary's face, causing him to double back. Irritated, the blue-haired mercenary threw a punch that landed squarely in Robin's ribs, knocking him to the ground. He stood with some difficulty and charged at Arc with his blade. Their weapons met in a spark of steel and they pushed on one another with all their force. Realizing his disadvantage, Robin broke the standstill and spun to lacerate his foe's side. No luck, he dropped the axe low to block the strike. Robin felt a pull on his shoulder and he was tossed back, further receiving a kick that knocked him to the ground once more. "Tch," Arc scoffed over the fallen tactician, "There's no real fight in you. Archers! Open fire!"

As he gave the command, only a single arrow fell, and it landed at the Tenebrous Hero's own feet.

"The hell?" he whipped his head around.

"Damn," sighed the redheaded girl, "Well, I never claimed to be an expert archer." She looked to the blue-haired man, "Oh, incidentally, I killed your archer buddies. Bad placement, _so_ obvious."

"You little bitch!" he swung his axe toward her, but the girl leapt out of the way.

"Watch your mouth," growled a voice from behind. Arc turned his head just in time for the bridge of his nose to have a crimson swath cut across it by Robin's blade.

"Oh, to hell with this," he backed up, rubbing the sensation on his nose, "All units, attack!" Robin's eyes narrowed as the ocean of troops began to move. Arc seized the moment of surprise to grab the former tactician and toss him into his daughter, and then to flee, rejoining his men.

"Damn," Robin cursed, picking himself up, "Sully, we need to get out of here!"

"Get on, ya jackass!" she offered her hand to Robin and the redheaded girl. Sully's horse reared and tore off as the tide of soldiers slammed into the castle gates.

After several minutes of rough riding that felt more like hours, the group fell into a small limestone cavern tucked away on the side of the hill upon which the castle stood.

"Dammit," Robin cursed, "dammit."

"Pissin' griffons, I think I mighta broke my damn leg," Sully complained.

"What the hell did you even do back there?!" Robin growled.

"Made sure your dumb ass made it here, that's what!" she barked back.

"And you were gonna be my escort! Yeah right!" Robin threw his hands up, coughing.

"Robin! Isn't there someone a little more important you might wanna talk to?" Sully suggested, maintaining her harsh tone.

Robin looked over to his side, finding Morgan sitting up, her eyes half-open, pushing her hair back behind her shoulders and out of her face. His eyes widened as they met hers. "Morgan... you're... alive."

"And well enough, I suppose," she nodded.

"You shouldn't have come for me," he sighed.

"Is that really the first thing you want to say to me?" she inquired, lowering her brow at her father.

"Yes," he replied curtly.

"I don't mean to break up the family drama, but there's the matter of the goddamn castle falling under attack to attend to!" Sully noted.

"I know that!" Robin leered coldly at her, "You were the one who suggested we speak in the first place!"

"Well, we've spoken," Morgan watched her father.

"We have," he acknowledged without sympathy.

"So just what in the hell do we do now?" Sully demanded.

Robin exhaled, "I... I don't know. I don't know, and I'm tired."

Morgan pulled a skin of water from her belt and offered it to her father's lips.

* * *

"Show's cancelled," sighed the boy in the salmon-colored cloak, lamenting the openness of the cobblestone street.

"No mystery as to why," replied his companion, wearing a matching periwinkle ensemble.

"Shall I go get my bows and my blade?" inquired the boy excitedly.

"Not yet. Don't get to revved up, we've gotta wait for Steve," reasoned the girl, sighing at her companion's impatience.

"Man, Steve's always slowin' us down. It's like that guy doesn't have any concept of hurry within him. Seriously, the world could be ending and he'd still be walking," griped the boy, "I can't stand waitin' around for him all the time."

"It's called patience, Leo, and I've found that a measured approach making use of it generally serves a lot better than running headlong into danger like you seem to relish," corrected a silver-haired man as he drew up on the pair.

"Aw, can it, Steve! Like you know anything," grumbled the boy.

"I'm ten years older than you, Leo, so, yes, I'd like to think I know a thing or two," the silver-haired man folded his arms.

"Boys, boys, will you ever get over fighting amongst yourselves?" chided the girl, "We've got business, haven't we?"

"Sylvia's right," the silver-haired man nodded, "we should start figuring out how we're going to make this happen."

"'We,'" the boy scoffed mockingly, "Everyone knows it's gonna be Sylvie an' me leading the charge and you hanging to the back, like always, Steve."

"I thought I told you to call me 'Steven,'" insisted the man with the silver hair, "didn't I, Lee-Lee?"

"I oughta box your ears," the boy rolled up his sleeves.

"Boys, today!" Sylvia demanded, putting hands on both of their chests to hold them back.


	4. Can't Stop

Chrom pushed himself up from the grayed floors of the prison. The unbearable stench of sulfur and iron-like blood flooded his nostrils and caused him to clutch his temple as he was gripped by a headache. When the pain seemed to pass, he wiped his forehead, then his eyes, and looked ahead.

Standing across from him was a youth, bearing purple hair that was mounded into a sort of ball on his head, though the mass was parted distinctly and cleanly to reveal the forehead beneath, forming a convex crop of amethyst that projected in front of his face. This youth also sported a smattering of mauve stubble along his jaw, which seemed unusually tense and wrinkled, given his age. A pair of burgundy eyes stared into Chrom's as the youth gave a sort of nod to his head that must have been a signal, as Chrom heard a pair of footsteps leaving.

"Exalt Chrom," acknowledged the youth, "are you well?"

"Not particularly," Chrom grunted, able only to rise to his knees.

"I apologize. My associate was unduly confrontational," declared the youth earnestly, "It's so hard to find good help, you know?"

"Mock me all you like," the exalt growled, "by now my capture has already been discovered and the executioners will be hauling you away before the sun rises tomorrow."

"Unlikely," resented the youth, "but, all the same, you misunderstand me, sir. I mean not to mock you. I wish to consult you."

"'Consult' me?" repeated Chrom with interest.

The youth nodded, "My nation... she'll need a proper leader, and I look to you principally for guidance. Your miraculous use of the sword garnered Ylisse political impunity during the course of your rule."

"My rule has yet to end," Chrom strained, "but, in any case, I did not choose to make use of the sword, it was thrust into my hand."

The youth raised his violet eyebrow, "You mean it is inaccurate to say that you incited war with Plegia by striking down a guard during a hostage negotiation-"

"He was going to murder my sister," Chrom growled.

"-and striking at he Valmese when the made landfall in Port Ferox?"

"They intended to dominate the entire continent. I would never allow an enemy onto my homeland, given the choice," reasoned the exalt.

"Ah, but there's the term: choice," resolved the youth enigmatically, "You did have the option to avoid these conflicts."

"But making such a choice would have undeniably negative repercussions for my countrymen!" argued the exalt with a cough.

"And that is why you feel war was forced upon you?" pressed the purple-haired youth. Chrom paused to consider, then nodded. The youth shut his eyes and laughed lowly, "We are of a like mind, Exalt Chrom. You will be more than helpful in guiding my nation to its deserved future."

"What nation is it of which you speak?" Chrom wondered.

"She goes by many names sir," sighed the youth, "Men live and die to give her the names she retains and loses, but they always change... Ylisse, Ferox, Valm, Plegia, Altea, Begnion, Daein, Renais, Frelia, Gallia, Caelin, Pherae, Ostia... Oh, how trifling it all is.. they are all one and the same, are they not?"

"No," Chrom rejected flatly, "each is a unique land with its own culture and people."

"Like every other supposed nation," the youth rolled his eyes, "On this point, let us agree to disagree, Exalt Chrom."

"Why is it you've imprisoned me, if all you desired was an advisor?" the exalt posed, lapsing back into a seated position.

The youth shook his head, "I am not so naïve as to believe you would willingly be party to Ylisse's destruction. You would be her most dogged defender, thus my subterfuge. Cowardly, you might say, but to win a war such as this, I must throw such archaic relics as honor away for strategic superiority. Such is often the case among the underdogs of revolution, no?"

"Is that what you think this is?" Chrom gritted his teeth, ready to lash out.

"It is what I know it to be," the youth nodded. Before Chrom could protest, he called, "Guards, give the exalt some water and see to his wounds. I'm finished with our parley."

* * *

Robin sat up, rubbing his spine as it cracked from the motion. He grimaced and sighed, rubbing his eyes. A chill ran through the air and forced him to huddle his arms to his chest momentarily as the cold oppressed him. Shutting his eyes, the former tactician allowed a sigh and ran a hand through his hair indelicately, shoving apart more than a few tousled locks. His cheeks tensed and arms throbbed as he pushed further into his seated posture. A stabbing in his elbows, a weariness along the length of his humerus, and a quiet sense of dread rebelled against the man as he rose. Like a mallet on a wall up the road, a dull sound echoed in the back on the man's head and beat the edge of his skull. He licked his teeth as they vibrated in disharmony.

The cave they had ducked into was cold and moist, and Robin frowned on feeling the sensation of his soaked clothes and dampened skin adding another ten pounds to his every inch of motion. He groaned, cracking his knuckles and flexing his wrists, his legs altogether refusing to cooperate in the ordeal. With a final breath, the tactician heard his neck also jolt in irritation as his eyes met those of his daughter, who seemed to have been staring for some time. "Good morning," he covered hoarsely, emptying a sizable portion of his lungs.

The red-haired girl murmured in acknowledgement, then stroked her hair behind her head. She fussed a moment with the bag that sat in front of her, eventually producing a scrap of bread that she wolfed down with vigor. She looked back up and over at her father, "Oh, er... Hungry?"

His stomach twisted and tensed, yearning. "No, thank you," he breathed without addressing her.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, downing another piece.

"Hell's bells," Sully griped, pushing herself up, "I slept like a sack'a crap. How 'bout you two?"

"My back's pretty stiff," Morgan answered, proving it by pushing on her back until it cracked.

"I'm fine," Robin denied, shaking his head. His eyes willed themselves shut another moment before he regained control. Morgan stared at him intently. Rather than complain, Robin decided it best to pull himself up and out of the craggy prison and to step outside to see what had befallen their surroundings following the attack. It was no surprise: the Ylisseans had been slaughtered, what little of them remained at the time. The fields already ran red with blood, which had now settled into a muddy maroon, and weapons, pieces of armor, and not to mention the odd body part, were strewn about like the results of some occultists' festival. The castle was unable to be viewed from Robin's angle, the inside most especially, but the former tactician had some reasonable assumptions. The smug mercenary Arc would be sitting on the exalt's throne, sipping mead from his personal chalice and laughing among his most adored men, getting drunk before midday on the sweet aubade of victory. Robin retreated into the cave, sulking unwittingly.

"So," he breathed, seating himself between the redheaded pair, "we need a plan of attack."

"Attack?" Sully cocked an eyebrow, "You're kiddin', right? Those goons'll run us through before we can say 'run!'"

"I'm aware," Robin rolled his eyes, "that's why it's not the castle we need to strike at."

"No? Then what's your target?" Sully continued.

"The suspicion was that the ships that carried the first attackers flew Valmese colors, right?" recalled the former tactician.

"Definitely," Morgan supplied, "I saw some with my own eyes."

"Then I can think of only one hope for checking this advance," surmised Robin.

"Oh hell no," the redheaded knight protested, "there is no way I'm walking into Valm on a wild goose chase tryin' to break up an invasion! That's gotta be the worst plan you've ever had!"

"Actually, I think he might be right," Morgan observed, "such a massive occupation might mean a drain on their domestic forces. If we cause a big enough stir for them back home, we might be able to coerce them into retreating."

"My thoughts exactly," Robin nodded.

"And what about Chrom and Lucy, not to mention Stahl and the other Shepherds?" Sully scratched her head impolitely.

"Find them and bring them along. Morgan and I will keep in contact," Robin decided, standing.

"You want me to just ride around occupied territory 'till I find 'em?" the knight growled.

"If you can't do it, I'll happen upon some other knight who's got the stones to save his country," the former tactician coughed.

"That's a low blow," she jabbed a finger into his chest, "I'll go, but it's on your head if I get into trouble."

"It always has been," he shrugged. Tempted to make another comment, but persuaded otherwise, Sully marched out of the cave, calling to her horse.

"Just me and you to Valm, eh?" Morgan piped up, "You must have a lot of confidence in me."

"And you me if you're going to go along with it," nodded the former tactician.

"Don't get me wrong," she put a hand out, "as a strategist, I still trust you."

"That's all I need," he accepted tersely.

"Now," the redheaded woman swept her hair back, "if Sully's got our only horse, how are we going to get around?"

"You've got feet for a reason," grunted Robin, walking out of the cave.

"Wha-? You want to walk all the way there?" she called after him.

"No, but does it look like we have a choice?" he sighed.

"I'm already becoming disenchanted with this plan," Morgan complained, following suit.

* * *

"Sir," saluted a guard formally from the end of the room.

"Yes? What is it?" begged the purple-haired youth."

"News from Ylisse, sir," explained the guard.

"So soon?" he reclined in his seat, "This is unexpected. Well, out with it."

"Sir Arc has claimed the castle at Ylisstol by all reports, sir. He stormed it with a crowd of men just a few days ago, and already they hold a firm occupation. Neighboring territories dare not move against him," described the guard, following a bow.

"What?" the youth crushed the glass of wine in his hand in surprise. He grimaced as the shards of it scraped his hand and the liquid dropped to the floor, "That imbecile... he was told to wait until I handed down my orders."

"As if that thickheaded buffoon could he trusted to obey anyone," scoffed the woman at his side, "He'll just sit there stroking his ego 'till you pat him on the head for a job well done, my lord."

"Would that I might have chosen a less rebellious partner," frowned the youth.

"Chide yourself not, sir," insisted the woman, "this was Arc's doing, not yours."

"He's under my employ," frowned the youth, "blame falls to me."

"An honorable stance, but you mustn't let it consume you," she advised.

"Sage counsel as always, Dahlia," acknowledged the youth, "You, messenger!"

"Sire?"

"Inform Sir Arc that if he wishes to continue making use of my resources and having his head upon his shoulders, he will not target any additional civilian institutions unless so ordered," commanded the young man.

"Arc you dreadful fool..." lamented a man with green hair, "Just who do you think you are? Conceited bastard probably thinks he owns this operation."

* * *

"Well, thanks for your help, guys," Stahl breathed, finally sitting up.

"Don't sweat it, Mean Green, we're happy to help," bowed the thief, un-wedging the lollipop from his mouth.

"Yes, it was quite kind of you to dispel those vagabonds, but I wish you hadn't let such harm come to you," perpetuated the noblewoman.

"I'm just glad to have been able to keep you safe," the green-haired knight proclaimed, sitting up, "though, I do have it in mind to ask you a small favor..."

"Well, if Chrom is asking so kindly, how can a member of his court possibly say no?" Maribelle touted with a smirk.

"How did you know?" Stahl wondered.

"Really, dear, why else would you be here?" Maribelle leered at the knight, who nodded at her, embarrassed.

"You can count me out, I think," declared Gaius, throwing a gummy bear into his mouth.

"What's the matter?" Stahl pressed.

"Look, I wanna help you guys, sure, but I gotta family to look after now, and I don't need another war to risk my life in. My neck's been on the chopping block too long for me," the thief contended.

"I see," the knight's eyes fell, "Well, I suppose I can't force you."

"But I can," Maribelle folded her arms and leered at her husband, "What is this tripe? Would you really have your lovely wife fight alone?"

"You know that's not what I mean," he scowled.

"I don't see anything that contradicts it," she tapped her foot.

Gaius rolled his eyes, "Fine, you got me, let's just get this over with. If I die, though, you have to bury me in melted chocolate."

Maribelle's eyes narrowed, "The purpose of some of your desires still greatly eludes me, Gaius."

"Chrom'll be really happy to see you guys along," Stahl's disposition brightened.

The group proceeded out the doors of the small house and prepared to set out for their next destination when they were halted abruptly by the THIUNK of an arrow puncturing the ground by their feet.

"No sudden moves, Shepherds," grunted a voice over their shoulders. A tall man swung a blade around behind them and had a pair of archers just behind him train their bows on the non-wounded members of Stahl's party, "Just stand still, and we'll bind you up and have you brought back to Lord Datura. He'll promote me for sure! Ha!"

"And if we refuse?" Stahl challenged, his glare showing he was unafraid of the thug.

An arrow planted itself in Stahl's thigh, earning a grunt of pain. "I've got more troops," the man touted, twirling his blade more. "Let's see..." he began, "send the lady first."

"Not today!" called a defiant voice. At once, an arrow was lodged into the speaking man's eye, causing him to fall onto his back in horror and anguish.

"The hell?" called out one of the archers. He jumped as a sword protruded from his abdomen.

Another trained his bow, but couldn't manage to steady his arm. He collapsed in a pool of the blood that drained from his neck, a throwing knife squarely there inserted.

A figure finally emerged from the shadows, wearing a bright red hood that covered and obscured his face. Another pair of archers took aim and fired on him, but he leapt out of their path and returned fire at double time. The air rang quiet as all the assailants were felled.

"That was some performance," complimented Stahl, offering his hand

The figure did not take it, "I did that which was necessary."

"Well, thank you," Stahl bowed, "Say, we're banding together a group to fight-"

"Stahl!" called Gaius, "You don't wanna do that."

"It would appear my reputation precedes me for your friend," the man smirked beneath his red hood.

"Gaius, please," Stahl insisted, "I'll make the call."

"Don't," dissuaded the figure, "I wouldn't be able to join you, regardless, I've my own affairs. I certainly didn't come to save you."

"Then what did you come for?" Stahl pressed.

"To protect someone I do care about saving," surmised the figure enigmatically.

"Still," Stahl began. Too late: the figure had dropped a cloud of smoke and vanished.

"What was that all about?" the knight scratched his head.

"You really don't know who that is?" asked Gaius with incredulity.

"No idea," Stahl admitted.

Gaius sighed, "You noble folk really need to get out more. That man was the 'Crimson Hood.' He was around during the Valmese war, acting as an independent, apparently. There's been tell he killed a total of anywhere between a hundred and a thousand troops by himself. One story I heard even says he nicked ol' Lobster Boy on the schnoz while picking apart one of his patrols."

"He sounds perfect," Stahl folded his arms.

"There are just as many stories of him ripping apart the dynasts when they got too close and even gutting some Ylisseans. He doesn't strike me as a guy with a great sense of camraderie," the thief noted.

"Right..." Stahl nodded in perceptible disbelief, "well, all the same, we should get moving."

"Right behind you, Mean Green," the thief whistled.

* * *

"Master," introduced a young mercenary. Arc beckoned him forward.

"News, son?" he guessed.

"A warning, sir, and a reprimand from Master Nihilus. He asks you to no longer antagonize civilian institutions," reported the young man.

"Is that right? Well, why does he bother making such a meaningless demand?" scoffed the Tenebrous Hero, "He can no more hold me back than he can the wind with his bare hand. I don't act for myself, I bend to the will of my men, and they thirst for battle, blood, and bullion. You can tell him that."

"Hear, hear!" cheered a mercenary.

"Lord Arc is always on our side!" agreed another.

"I will report as much," bowed the young man. He stared nervously as a gathered crowd of mercenaries eyed him unscrupulously. "Might I ask that you tell your men to kindly allow me through?" pleaded the man.

"No more than I might make the same demand of the wind," chuckled Arc. In a moment, the group of mercenaries had jumped onto the man and had begun tearing him apart.

* * *

The man with the leaf-green hair twirled his blade a moment, gauging the item playfully in his hand.

"Sometime today, Cyrus?" called his "attendant." He smirked. The man had been brought along to rein him in to ensure he didn't simply execute the clueless mercenary on the spot. Of course, he wouldn't dream of killing either Arc or his "attendant," unless Nihilus bid him do so. Nihilus was why he got to have so much fun, after all, and he would die before disappointing his new boss.

Before the attendant could distract the swordsman again, something caught his eye: a red ponytail bobbed on the horizon.


	5. I Walk the Line

"Halt," Cyrus made use of his most official voice to bark at the woman as she drifted by.

She didn't stop moving, "Whatever it is, I'm not buying."

"No soliciting here," he declared honestly, "I'm afraid I find myself a bit lost."

"I'm in something of a hurry," she continued.

"Why not come with me? Perhaps our paths will intersect," he offered.

"I doubt it. And if it's all the same to you, I've learned it to be against my best interest to accept rides from strangers," she still hadn't stopped walking.

Cyrus's nostrils flared. He didn't have the patience for this type of back-and-forth, but now was the wrong time to employ violence. There had to be a way to convince this irritating woman. "Please, my lady, I can pay if need be. I've a very important schedule that must be met exactly."

Against her better judgment, the red-haired woman stopped and looked back, "What sort of pay are we talking?"

"My coffers aren't limitless," sighed Cyrus, happy to have broken through, "but you just tell me what you think is fair when we arrive and I'll be more than happy to pay it."

Anna liked the sound of that, "You're speaking my language, all right, but I need to know I can trust you. How about a little security deposit?"

The man with the leaf-green hair grunted in resentment and ordered his attendant forward. The older man's shaking and vein-covered palm offered the merchant woman a red leather pouch. She took it and opened it carefully, her eyes widened on seeing the inside.

"Can we get a move on?" demanded Cyrus impatiently.

"I think we're in business," affirmed the opportunistic Anna, dropping the pouch into her pocket.

"Good," he nodded, then faced his attendant, "fetch the horses." He bowed in compliance. "So," the swordsman breathed as his attendant departed, "where is the open road taking you today, miss?"

"Home. I need to check up on my husband," she stared straight ahead.

The man with the leaf-green hair smiled, "I see. You did seem the type to keep them on a short leash, eh? Your husband is a lucky man."

She nodded more affably, "I hope he's all right. I've been worried, of late."

"Heh. We men will always tell you ladies we're fine 'till we've croaked, it's as simple as that. I wouldn't be too troubled by it," laughed the man.

"You're right there," Anna mumbled.

Cyrus sobered, "At any rate, 'home' doesn't tell me much. Can you give me a town?"

"We live about three hours to the northwest of Southtown. That's about two or three days' march from Ylisstol," provided the redheaded merchant.

"Oh, excellent," surmised Cyrus, "our meeting was fortuitous, then.

I'm making for Ylisstol."

"I see," Anna remarked uselessly, hearing the trot of the horses coming into position.

"I hope you don't mind riding behind me," suggested the swordsman, putting one foot into the stirrup of his horse.

"That's fine," Anna supposed, traipsing behind, "...You know, the capitol may be busy. Ylisse has been attacked."

The man with the leaf-green hair widened his eyes and lifted his brow in feigned shock, "I'd heard rumors, but I wasn't sure they could be believed."

"I understand," she breathed, the both of them now mounted up on the steed, "I would scarce believe them, myself, had I not been in the eye of that storm."

"You were there?" replied Cyrus, with genuine interest.

"Not for long, thankfully," Anna dared not recall the scenes of the bodies, her eyes clenching disgustedly, "but yes. It was... disturbing. Frightening."

"I imagine," the swordsman nodded. He looked to his attendant to see if they were prepared. Receiving a nod, he whipped the horse's reins, looking out over the horizon and commanded, "We ride for Ylisstol."

* * *

Morgan paced abreast of her father, glancing over at him. As with most other days, he hadn't taken much time to clean up his appearance before setting out: his hair was disheveled and in need of combing, his pants were dirty and creased from being folded wrong or not folded at all for so long, and the ends of his trademark robe were frayed with the wear of near-daily use. "We should stop and get something to eat," she declared in the vacuum of air.

"I'm not hungry. We need to keep moving," he muttered, not looking at her.

"Don't play the martyr, father," she scolded, taking him by the wrist, "Come on, I have some friends in a town just up the road."

The former tactician might have protested, but he couldn't argue with the fact that he was hungry. Judging by the position of the sun and the color of the horizon, he guessed they had been marching for roughly sixteen hours. To her credit, Morgan hadn't complained once, she had simply followed along in stern silence. They continued along in that same manner, barely exchanging glances and never so much as a word until they broke into a line of buildings several minutes later, as Morgan had claimed.

After a moment, she pushed ahead and pointed one building out, "Over here."

Robin complied and followed his daughter into the establishment, his tired legs kicking dust into the doorway as they entered. Morgan took a seat at a counter immediately, ordering a glass of water for them both. Robin pulled himself over next to her with a grunt and dropped his elbows onto the table, causing a great noise as the buckles of his vambraces and various straps clattered on the wood countertop. Heads in the eatery turned to them.

In a moment, a young man sidled up alongside Morgan, "I figured it was you I saw there, Rouge, honey."

"Hey, Ty," she greeted tersely.

He smiled bemusedly, "Why the ice queen act? Somethin' wrong?"

"I'm here with my father," she glanced over at Robin, "and I'm not staying long."

"Oh, I gotcha," he nodded, "Heya, sir. I'm Tyler. I've worked with your daughter on some jobs."

"Jobs?" Robin cleared his throat.

"We'll talk about it later," Morgan put a hand on his shoulder. She gestured to Tyler, "Will you get Pete for us?"

"Yeah, straight away," complied the young man.

"'Rouge...' 'Jobs...'" Robin exhaled, "You really have been keeping busy."

"I wasn't just going to wait around," she folded her arms.

"No, you never would," surmised her father. She hated it when he was so vaguely philosophical. Nonetheless, Morgan declined to provide a reply, thinking better.

After a few more wordless minutes had passed, a large, rotund man emerged from the back of the building, "Oy, you wee minnow!" The man came forward. His clothes were stained with pinkish blood and his arms and forehead were doused with sweat. He reeked of both simultaneously, causing Morgan to shrink just a bit as he drew up and bear hugged her.

"Good to see you, too, Pete," Morgan chuckled.

"An' who's 'is? Din't 'ave you pegged for takin' ta the older crowd, sprout," the man wiped his nose gracelessly while leering at Robin.

"Uh, this is my father, Pete," the redhead introduced.

"No kiddin'?" wondered the man, "Well, chuffed." The large man took Robin's hand happily. One of them was happy, anyway.

"Can you give us some of that good lamb?" requested Morgan, hoping to move along.

"'Can I,' she says," laughed the man, "I'd be right gutted if I couldn't." He pulled out a large, long, and rather unnervingly sharp knife. "I been choppin' from sunrise to sunset jus' hopin' your pretty face'd drop by and ask me for some lamb, lassie."

"I really don't see how you stay alive, working like that," she laughed with him.

"Yeh, maybe meat'll be the death o'me yet. 'Till then, though, I'd like to see it try," smiled the butcher.

"Thanks a bunch, Pete," Morgan saw him off.

"You've certainly made a lot of friends," Robin observed curtly.

"Not hard, so long as you make the effort," Morgan glared insinuatingly at her father.

"And so long as you're a beautiful young woman," the former tactician smiled to himself.

"Very funny," his daughter blew a raspberry at him. She sat in silence a moment, then cleared her throat, "It's, um... It's been a while, hasn't it?" Robin nodded. "Well," she picked up, "how have you been?"

The former tactician glanced down to his robes and coughed. Inhaling, he looked up and worked his jaw into the shell of a smirk, "Keeping busy, I suppose. Your mother's always got her business."

"Does she still refuse to take off?" Morgan pressed.

"Mostly, but sometimes I manage to force her to stay home," declared the former tactician with pride. Finishing, Robin leaned forward and coughed loudly into his elbow several times, dryly sputtering, the cracking of his esophagus echoing from the wooden walls, drawing more attention and silence to the pair. When he had regained his breath, the older man lifted his head, eyes closed, only to be met with the lukewarm stare of his daughter. "Don't trouble yourself about it," he concluded, clearing his throat for good measure.

"Maybe we should rest a bit," his daughter supposed.

"I'll be fine," he managed through a garbled throat.

Morgan closed her eyes and leaned back. What was she going to do with him? Letting her thoughts drift, she was reminded of her mother's indefatigable habits, and then simply of her mother. She had planned for them to meet in the harbor, but now... Morgan's mind halted as a chill scratched at her back: she have to tell her father that his wife had been killed.

"Can we go back to 'Rouge?'" her father's interested voice snapped her back into reality.

"I imagine we'll be chatting quite a while," she breathed, "so, all right, let's begin with that."

* * *

"Well, Little Red came to me one day, sayin' somethin' like 'I need you to help me get a leg up.' Girl was wrong: she didn't need me for anything. She could climb walls like no one I've ever seen, and she has some nimble little fingers; she pried one tumbler open without even using a lockpick. I didn't really think I'd need to test her combat skills, but I tested her anyway and ended up flat on my back with a knife to my throat in all of two minutes. Not my favorite position, lemme tell you. I asked her what in the hell made her think she needed my help to begin with, and she tells me she didn't know where to start. I gave her an old red bandana I had and told her to wear it like a scarf, to protect her identity, and that she should try small scores to start. Haven't seen her in person since, but. I musta run into a hundred bounty hunters lookin' for her, and even more thieves lookin' for her to teach them. Then, of course, I told 'em I taught her everything she knows, and that they only needed to bring me as much candy as they could find to receive some instruction," Gaius finished, slicking his ginger hair back with a sly smile.

"That doesn't surprise me," Stahl acceded sarcastically, "but I am surprised Morgan really wanted to be a thief. How did her parents take that?"

"How the hell should I know?" the thief shrugged.

"Sir Robin was such a respectable man, and at least Anna ran a respectable enterprise. How could such a charming young woman fall into the throes of something so foul as thievery?" Maribelle lamented.

Gaius glared at his wife a moment, "Honey, in the thieving business, you're at an immediate disadvantage if you're not a pretty little girl."

Sidling up to the poorly-maintained oaken door, Stahl rapped gently on the frame. After a pushing sound and a few footsteps, the door swung open: "Friend Stahl! What fun! What is bringing you out to this throat of weeds?"

"'Neck of the woods,' dear," Gregor's wife corrected.

"Gregor, Cordelia," Stahl bowed, "it's good to see the both of you faring well."

"Old useless man Gregor is beggaring around house too much for beautiful wife's tasting, but we are... What is word? Maiming? Marching?" Gregor fumbled.

"Managing, darling," Cordelia smiled. She looked out upon her old friends, "and I've never made your age a part of the issue."

"Is old bones, wonderful wife," the aging mercenary chuckled with self-deprecation, "Will be put in ground soon, anyways."

"Stop that," she hugged him delicately, "Now, is there something you need, Stahl?"

"Have you heard the news?" the verdant paladin wondered.

"About the attack? Yes, someone swung by and warned us about it the other day," Cordelia recalled, "but we've seen precious little news otherwise."

"Chrom is decidedly concerned, and so am I," Stahl admitted, "I've been instructed to gather as many of the Shepherds as I can to retaliate."

"Is sounding like trouble," Gregor grunted, "and Gregor is losing taste for trouble. Why Gregor never settle in peaceful country?"

"You want us to go with you, Stahl?" the redheaded pegasus knight continued.

"If you would be so kind as to serve Ylisse once more," he implored.

"Of course," Cordelia nodded, "If Chrom has need of me, I cannot decline. I am a pegasus knight in service to House Ylisse."

"Gregor may not be good for the smashing as much anymore... but he will come to keep beautiful wife safe," the mercenary decided.

"Then I extend my thanks to you both," Stahl offered his hand. They both took it, one after the other.

"Seem battle never stray far from Gregor," he sighed.

* * *

The sapphire eyes parted and glanced up. She was moving, not of her own volition, but with a rhythm, and a heft that was primarily unfamiliar to her. As her eyes narrowed themselves into focusing, she found Frederick's sullied face before her. "Frederick?" she announced, "What's happened?"

The knight's eyes opened wide for a moment, then he collected himself, shutting his eyes tightly and gripping at his collar, swallowing, "Your father was captured. We are making to Ylisstol to recoup and gather ourselves for a pending invasion."

Lucina's brain had already throbbed in shock, "My father was... captured?"

Frederick nodded with extreme dissatisfaction, his eyebrows falling in defeat, "I was helpless to stop them."

"Well, we have to go get him back!" demanded the young princess.

"Would that it were so simple, milady," Frederick exhaled sharply, "but we would have to contend with an entire nation to bring about that end."

"Then so be it!" decided an ardent Lucina, "I'm prepared to fight whomever I must to retrieve my father!"

"I'm certain you are, milady, but it's simply not possible right now," Frederick declared with greater determination.

"Put me down," the young royal ordered abruptly, "I'll go after him by myself, craven."

"Milady, please," Frederick sighed, "There is a time and place for such thoughts and actions, but it is not here, and not now."

"I'm going," she endeavored unsuccessfully to push herself out of the knight's arms, only lightly turning to her right before sinking back down. In a fit of anger, she shoved into the knight's chest, "Let me go! I wish to fight!"

"Milady!" Frederick growled, coming to a halt, "This is the first time in the recorded history of Ylisse that a single individual protector has failed to prevent the capture of the Exalt in a non-war scenario. Do you think I am enjoying myself? I have made what will likely be listed as the gravest failure in all of Ylissean history, however long it may now last, because I was too weak...! Do you not think I feel shame? That I wish to head back and kick and claw at my foe for this indelible scar against me?"

"Precisely, then let's-"

"But if I do that- if we do that- it will mean death for the both of us, and we will die useless to our own mother country. Is that how you wish to serve the legacy of your father?" Frederick shouted.

"You speak as if he's already dead!" Lucina bit.

"He might as well be, if you'll not quit being so naïve!" Frederick finally lashed out.

Lucina swallowed her tongue; she'd never seen Frederick so plainly angry, "I... I'm sorry, I only wanted..."

"I know, milady," he breathed, calming himself, "and that is why we shall make for Ylisse with all due haste."

"I... should walk. You must be tired," the princess played with her hair.

"No," refuted the knight, "shouldering royal burdens has always been my assignment. Allow me to succeed here, at least." Lucina complied, saying nothing as the man in the heavy armor who bore an even heavier scowl plodded along.

* * *

The Plegian woman's eyes wrenched open at the news. "And you're certain of this?" she pressed, whispering.

"I could not be more so," the advisor assured.

"All the same, I want confirmation," she decided, leering at him, "this is not a situation that can be handled lightly."

"Right you are," acceded the advisor.

"Return to me in three days' time with personal confirmation of what you have reported," the raven-haired woman directed, looking disaffectedly at the man across from her.

This was troubling news. Ylisse had been attacked. Ordinarily, this would be none of Tharja's concern: the people of Plegia were grossly indifferent to Ylissean affairs and hardships, but this was clearly a special case. Not only had the Ylisseans been attacked, but, by all reports, the attackers were winning. While this posed obvious threats against Plegian territory, Tharja's mind was erstwhile absorbed: What had become of her beloved Robin? The tactician- he was a tactician once, at least- was reported to have retired to the backwoods of his country long ago, after the end of their conflict with Grima, however Tharja had been regrettably unable to verify this information for herself, as the running of her nation was not a task that could be performed while skulking about the countryside of a foreign land. She had not lobbied for the position, rather it had been thrust upon her when she returned home, the people of Plegia recognizing her power as being superior to that of both Gangrel and Validar. Robin had then urged her on, claiming that it was an opportunity for her to "do some good for Plegia." She might have rejected the notion outright, but she couldn't refuse the former tactician's earnest hope, and, at any rate, she had promised herself to another, which would prevent them from meeting very often. This might be her last chance to leave her obsession with a favorable impression.

So it was that Tharja saw her coronation with Henry as her lawfully wedded king, and so there he sat beside her, silvery locks astir as his face shimmered with that ceaseless smile, their daughter waiting pensively below. "You look a little blue, Tharja," he chuckled, "Did he tell you a dead baby joke, or something?"

"No, you grinning fool," she sighed in her signature monotone, "Ylisse is under attack."

"What?!" Noire jumped.

"Wow," Henry accepted blankly, "Déja-vu, huh? Am I in the past?"

"This is bad news, you know," she growled.

"Oh, I know," he remarked with a confident smile, "'bad news' is practically my middle name! I see it everywhere! Yep, sure is terrible, Ylisseans being run through all over the place, killed in battle, spilling warm blood all over everyone... Mmm... How's this bad again?"

"Robin might be one of the Ylisseans being run through," Tharja became angry upon telling herself.

"Robin?" the king of Plegian finally found a reason to cock an eyebrow, "Aw, no way. There's tough to kill, and then there's that guy! Seriously, a god couldn't put him in the ground!"

"But he might no longer be so durable," Tharja elaborated.

"I guess," he shrugged, "but do you know how many Ylissean tacticians it takes to bring down an invasion?"

"Henry, not now," she barked.

"Aw, you're no fun when you're like this," he sighed.

"I'm going to Ylisse to investigate the state of affairs there. I need you to keep things in check in my absence. Can you do that?" she implored.

"Sit on my royal rump while you get to go frolic in the gore?" he folded his arms, "Why do you get to do all the fun stuff?"

"Henry," she grew more grave, "I need to investigate. Please just tell me you'll watch over things.

He shrugged and smiled again, "Sure thing. Just make it back soon, okay? And tell Robin I said 'Hurry up and die already, you old geezer!' Nya ha ha!" Tharja shook her head and marched out of the castle. He was completely aloof, but as long as Henry was present, no one would be taking Plegia from them.

"I don't like the sound of all this," Noire quivered before her father, "This talk of battle makes me nervous."

"You think that's bad? In a couple days, I'm gonna be the sole ruler of this country!" Henry cackled.

"Father!" Noire screamed.

"Just a joke, sweetie," he smiled broadly.

"What I wouldn't give for one normal conversation," the girl bit her lip as her father laughed.

* * *

"You're not so quiet as you might think," the massive man declared aloud.

A curse came from the bushes, "And you're more perceptive than you look, you know?"

"Most take me for a fool because I do not often speak. The opposite is true," the hulk remarked flatly.

"I suppose the proof's in the pudding there," breathed the man, pulling down his hood to ensure it covered his face.

"You disguise yourself," observed the mountain, "Your intention is to kill me, correct?"

"That... was the plan," the man in the red hood nodded nervously, "I see now that might be more difficult than I first believed. I had hoped to get the drop on you."

"You are an assassin," continued the gigantic man, undaunted, "on whose coin do you train your bow at me."

"No," the hooded man shook his head, "this job is personal for me. No hard feelings, but you need to... well, your employer needs to die."

"Then why not target him?" the man asked simply.

"You must understand he's... difficult to reach," the hooded man excused.

"Indeed, so, cause casualties to draw him out of hiding. That's your plan?" supposed the colossus.

"It... was," breathed the man in the red hood.

"Your choice of target was a mistake," came the simple reply.

"I see that now," the assassin scratched the back of his neck.

The enormous man sighed to himself, shutting his eyes and inhaling, mulling his thoughts over and stroking his chin as they passed. "Leave," he instructed, following his pause.

"Sorry?" the assassin cleared his ear.

"Leave and never return," ordered the massive man once more, "You have visited no harm upon me, and so you may live. Do not try my generosity."

"Er... thank you, sir," accepted the assassin, "Might I ask your name, for reference?"

"For further plots?" he supposed in return, "I would advise against it, but it will not matter. If you face death at my hands, it will be your own doing. My name is Argent."

"As you say, Argent," the hooded assassin backed up, "and now I disappear."


	6. The Man Comes Around

Lissa stared at the stone wall with fatigue, an illness creeping in the pit of her stomach. She grabbed her wrists gently and pulled her sleeves back a bit, finishing by tugging the ties in her hair until they were good and tight. She sat back, extending her hands to the floor to support her and sighed aloud.

A repetitive clicking droned away at her side. Having changed her perspective, Lissa's ears adjusted so she could hear the sound again, and she turned her head to face its source.

A snap sounded. "Aw, tarnation," complained the man with the pot on his head, "This ain't never gonna do it." The broken spoon fell from his hand.

"I appreciate that you're trying, Donny, but we need a real plan," the princess recommended in a whisper.

"I'm sorry," he moped, "I just thought that woulda worked a bit better, Miss Lissa."

She smiled at the familiar quirk, "Donny, you don't have to use honorifics with your wife."

"I just can't helps it," he admitted, "Yer my queen, and I'm yer humble subject, is all."

"Do you think you could nab that guard if we tried?" Lissa indicated a man who currently had his back to the pair through the iron bars.

"Boy could I," his brow creased in anger, "I'd whip that nasty polecat in a Ferox minute if I could just get my hands near 'em." To emphasize the point, Donnel reached his arm out of the bars and swiped a few times with the full extent of his arm, just barely missing the boot of the man before them.

"Knock that off," the guard scolded, kicking the purple-haired man back.

"Well..." Lissa reclined into another sigh, unable to prevent herself from folding her arms and pouting, "This is no good. There has to be a way out of here..."

A clattering came from the hallway, causing all heads in the room, including that of the guard to perk up in its direction. "Just leave me alone!" cried a panicked voice as another soldier tumbled into the room, his shield tossed aside.

"Out of my way, vagrant!" boomed an extravagant voice, "None shall imprison the peerless mother and father of the great Owain Dark!" A cry and a cough shot across the hall.

The guard in front of Donnel and Lissa's cell ground his feet into the floor, taking proper hold of his lance. "Watch out!" taunted a set of red eyes, "I got sharp, pointy teeth!" The guard lost his composure as the taguel pounced on him, the sound of flesh crunching as it was bitten rising over the cell. Lissa looked aside. A flash of light ended the affair, as the pair looked back upon Yarne wiping his forehead with his arm, "Yuck. I hate having to do that."

"Yarne?" Lissa pulled up to the bars with glee.

"Yeah," the taguel nodded, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"Can ya git us outta this here cell?" Donnel implored, rattling the bars.

"Sure," Yarne shrugged, "I just risked death getting in here, but I'll free you without so much as a 'thanks.'"

"Yarne, what's the hold-up?" Owain wondered as he stepped into the chamber.

"Owain, darling!" Lissa pressed her face to the bars.

"Yer okay!" her husband contributed.

"Begone, craven rodent!" Owain brushed the taguel aside and pulled a keyring from the collapsed guard. After a few tries, the young man found the right key and heard the door clang as it unlocked. His parents bounded out and enveloped him in an embrace, his mother nearly suffocating him.

"They went through here," described an outside voice, alongside a thunder of footsteps.

"Don't let me die!" Yarne transformed again and bounded out the cell's door.

"Will you be all right, my mother and father? Or do you require the assistance of your impeccable son-"

"Git along now!" Donnel encouraged his son from the door, waving his arm as Lissa passed him by.

"No appreciation for drama in this family," Owain scowled, following suit.

The group shoved past the castle walls as the thundering of soldiers' footsteps drew closer upon them. Reaching a door, the taguel at front smashed through it, the remaining family speeding into the threshold and Owain tipping a pile of crates to cover their tracks behind them. They continued running, pounding their legs as they broke out into the grass, not daring to stop.

"What the hell's the matter with you lot?" demanded a vicious growl from within the castle.

The blockaded soldiers whipped their heads around to face their daunting commander. "The, uh, prisoners got away, sir. A boy and some kinda killer rabbit jumped us," one explained.

"Got away?" the Tenebrous Hero repeated, looking down the bridge of his nose at the man.

"Yessir," he nodded, "b-but... Um, I mean, they couldn't have gotten far... If we hurry, we can still catch 'em..."

The man stroked back his indigo hair and stared at the barred door. He took a few more paces over to a window and stared out at the horizon, finding no trace of the escapees. "No," Arc shook his head, "there's no need. Just a powerless girl and her hick of a husband. Plus..." The Tenebrous Hero shifted his feet forward and strode intimidatingly up to the same young man who had spoken. "If you go, then I won't have any justification for doing," he reached his hand out, "this."

The young man squirmed, kicked, and pled in the grasp of the indigo-haired man, pushing the arm with all of his might. The remaining men sat in silence as a crack echoed across the castle hallways. Their eyes followed the back of the Tenebrous Hero as he walked out of the room, letting the body fall to the floor.

* * *

"So, it's a no-go," reported a dissatisfied Owain, staring apologetically at his mother.

Lissa's bottom lip belied her frustration, "Well, that's not a good sign. Lon'qu was always willing to help us. What changed?"

"I don't think it's him," Owain nodded, "he said it was the East-Khan that was giving him trouble."

"And who's the current East-Khan?" Lissa put a finger to her cheek.

"Um..." Owain paused, "Shouldn't you know that?"

"I was thinking!" she called back defensively. "I don't think we've ever met," Lissa was racking her brain, "When Flavia stepped down... who was it?"

"It's not worth discussing," determined a man's voice. A glimmer of silver hair shone in the firelight, "The man you're thinking of, no one has met him, not just you."

"Steven?" the princess recognized as the young man stepped into view.

"I'm pleased to see you unharmed, Princess Lissa," he bowed.

"You know you needn't be so formal with me," the blonde reminded, "your father and I were good friends."

"Just showing the proper respects," the young man bowed.

"So nobody's ever seen this East-Khan feller?" the sable-haired man piped up.

Steven shook his head, "He was installed as East-Khan as a demand of the people. They threatened revolution if Lon'qu denied their man the position."

"Might he have some reason to resent helping Ylisse?" Lissa compounded.

"That I don't know," the silver-haired man sighed, "he's quite the enigma."

"Sounds like we should head for Regna Ferox and get some answers," Lissa determined.

"You have your brother's conviction, my lady," Steven chuckled amicably, "but the mercenaries still prowl many of the borders. It will be difficult to get by."

"Then what does yon passionless orator suppose we do?" Owain challenged, "Naught but death awaits us in our sojourn here."

"That's why I said 'difficult' and not 'impossible,'" the silver-haired youth leered at the swordsman, "Princess Lissa, Prince Donnel, if you would be willing to wear disguises, I believe I can smuggle you over the border as clergy. From what I've seen, even these flagless dastards don't cut down innocent priests and clerics.

"Does the gentleman of silvery esteem forget his most valuable asset?" Owain thumbed at himself.

"You'll just need to act like our guard, Owain," Steven nodded at him.

"Then we have a plan," Lissa picked herself up.

"It may he advisable to rest," the silver-haired man cautioned.

"We're going," Lissa insisted, stretching her legs.

* * *

Morgan hesitated, staring at the massive wooden structure. It shifted and swayed with the breeze, eliciting a few churning noises. Eventually she called up onto the decks, "I didn't know you owned a boat, father."

The former tactician leapt over one of the ornately carved metal sidings and let a rope carry him to the dock, "There's a lot you might not know about me. One is that I like the sea." Robin winked at his daughter, "And she's not a boat. She's a ship."

"It's the same thing, isn't it?" Morgan stared at the vessel perplexedly.

"She," Robin emphasized, "is a 'ship.' That's like saying there's no difference between ground beef and filet." Morgan shrugged in exasperation, "Anyhow, the good ship _Starling_ and her captain will get us to Valm in no time at all."

"Who's its captain?" Morgan examined the ship's deck for another body. Her father only grinned at her. "Oh, hells," she rolled her eyes. "Do you care to tell me why you kept this bo- ship moored in Regna Ferox, rather than nearer by in Ylisse?"

"Ylisse had no ports big enough to handle the old girl when she was built," the former tactician explained, examining the ship with pride, "I never really needed her before today, aside from the occasional sabbatical."

"Please, sir," implored a nearby voice, "to Ylisse. Name your price."

"Ain't goin' there, no way, no how," grunted the seaman.

"I know that voice," Morgan recognized. "Hey Inigo!" she jumped and waved.

The boy with the sapphire hair glanced up at the ruckus, "I'll be damned." He hurried over and embraced the redheaded girl, "Morgan, my darling! It's been too long! How are you?"

"You know me," she waved her hand, "getting by. You were supposed to come visit me." She tapped a finger on the young man's nose.

"I know, but I was sent on a diplomatic mission. I haven't had time to write," he apologized, "It's heartening to see you again, my dear."

"You too," she breathed, staring into his eyes. They jolted into a kiss.

Robin cleared his throat loudly and rubbed the underside of his chin.

"Oh!" the redhead jumped back, "Um, of course you remember my father, Inigo."

The boy nodded deferentially, "How could I forget? He's around the castle so much he might as well be my uncle. I suppose I have to settle for father-in-law."

"Well met, son," the former tactician saluted tersely.

"Now, what brings your lovely self to Regna Ferox?" Inigo wondered.

"Have you heard that Ylisse is under attack?" Morgan looked into his eyes gravely.

His face soured, "I had heard rumors. May I take it for truth, then?"

Morgan nodded somberly, "But we're going to fight back. The attackers were Valmese, so we're going to cause some trouble in Valm and bring the troops scrambling back home. Care to join us?" Robin cocked an eyebrow.

"Alas, I don't believe I can," the man with the sapphire hair reported, "My mother and father will be looking for me, I should think."

"Your father's already been dispatched from the castle, along with your sister," Robin explained, stepping forward, "Your mother, your aunt and uncle, as well as your cousin were also all... forced to evacuate. I know nothing of their current whereabouts."

Inigo's eyes flashed, and then he shrugged, "I suppose I'm not needed then, am I?" All right. If it's only to be closer to my darling, I'll accompany you."

"Oh, wonderful," the thief embraced him.

"Great," Robin rolled his eyes, "Help me lower the mains."

Inigo and Morgan shared a glance.

"The main sails," Robin elaborated with a scowl, "We need to get moving."

"Oh, right away," the prince hastened up the gangplank.

"Morgan," her father called, chewing on a bit of rope, "turn that crank and get the anchor up."

"Yes, sir," she droned.

"We're aboard a ship," Robin smirked, the proper response to an order is 'Aye, captain.'"

"I'd rather gouge my eyes out, captain," she resisted.

"You were more fun when you were younger," he laughed, fixing the wheel of the ship into place as she sauntered on deck. As the anchor slowly lifted from the water, the ship began to drift forward.

"Full sail," ordered the captain at his helm, "we'll need to hurry." Inigo looked at him expectantly and scratched his head.

"Just untie 'em all, son," Robin pointed at the various ropes that lashed the remaining sails to the vessel. The breeze picked up as the cloth ballooned to full size on release. The _Starling_ groaned a bit before shredding the seas before her as she slid forward. "Steady as she goes," Robin murmured, mostly to himself, adjusting the wheel to strike out of the harbor.

Morgan and Inigo drifted next to one another in front of the crew quarters, just below the helm where Robin hummed a bit. "This 'diplomatic mission...' What was it that was so important as to keep you away from me?" she held her finger to her chin.

"A meeting with the new East-Khan of Regna Ferox. No one's seen him since he was installed," the prince noted.

"Hum," Morgan mulled the knowledge over, "so what was this mysterious man like?"

Inigo paused, furrowing his brow, "Quiet. A bit too quiet to be as popular as he seems to be in so boisterous a land as Regna Ferox. I struggled to get so much as a full sentence out of him, and yet the people draft entire dissertations in his defense. It's odd. I didn't even get a name, come to think of it."

"If we had more time, I should like to see him for myself," the redhead mused.

"Eyes front," the _Starling's_ captain called out measuredly, "Looks like there might be a storm out in front of us."

* * *

The door was already hanging open as Stahl approached it. He glanced to each side to ensure he wasn't falling into a trap and tenuously knocked on the door's frame. He was relieved to see Miriel peek out, unharmed.

"Miriel. Good to see you're all right. I guess I can count on you to take care of yourself after all," the paladin chuckled.

"I thank you for your backhanded and possibly sarcastic expression of relief," she stroked her hair back, "but my survival, I must confess, is not as a result of my own endeavors."

"Don't bother, Miriel," groaned a man's voice, "they'll never recognize me."

"Kellam? You are here!" Stahl's face brightened still further, "then the captain of Ylisse's royal guard is still alive."

"For now, it would appear," the knight sighed, "but at great cost."

That shifted the verdant knight's countenance downward, "What cost is that?"

"The castle, Ylisstol has been overrun. I'm led to believe everyone else inside was captured, including Lissa and Olivia."

"What?!" Stahl gritted his teeth, "W-Well... we have to do something about that!"

"I agree," the knight nodded, "but I found my options pretty limited until you showed up."

"Right," the paladin clenched his fist in determination, "as you can see, I've got a few of the former Shepherds in tow. We were going to get everyone back together, but I think new information will mean that task is on hold."

"So we'll strike the castle with you?" Kellam elaborated.

"If you would," Stahl nodded.

"This offensive may be altogether an overzealous undertaking for our rather meager compendium of available personnel, however my preexisting knowledge concerning the capabilities of those here assembled reinforces my certainty in the likelihood of our success to an acceptable degree," Miriel pushed her glasses up.

"Glad to hear it. Let's not waste time," Stahl hurried to mount back upon his horse and spurred it to action. From here to Ylisstol would be something of a ride, but they had to get to the castle immediately.

"Hey, Twinkles, can I catch a ride on your steed over there?" Gaius groaned, "It's been nothing but walking all this time, and I could use a little custard break."

"Heavens' sakes, Gaius, hurry up," his wife sighed, shifting over.

"Thanks, baby," he breathed, wasting no time."

* * *

"Oof!" Chrom heard, accompanied by a loud thud. The exalt picked his head up from the stone floor, eyes dancing with spots of color from his less than comfortable nap. He wiped his face and stroked a lock of hair off of his forehead before his eyes focused in on the pink-haired woman across from him.

"Olivia!" he jumped, the recognition suddenly registering with his mind.

"Chrom!" tears hung in her eyes. She buried her face in her husband's lap as they sat together.

"I hope that you now see that I am not a monster, Exalt Chrom," mused a familiar voice. The purple-haired youth from before took his place before the small prison, "I had one of my own agents smuggle her out to be brought to you. You should be glad: Arc doesn't have the most... erm, flattering reputation in regards to female prisoners." The exalt only stared coldly at his captor, "But you see I am not capricious, and not without reason, but that I giveth and I taketh away."

Olivia shuddered, staring pensively at the man. Chrom held her more tightly, "I suppose you'll try once more to convert me to your insanity?"

"I can do no less," the youth shrugged, smiling.

"You won't change my mind, ever. Ylisse will oppose you, exalt or no," Chrom shook his head.

"Stubbornness," sighed the young man, "some say pride is the greatest folly of man, others avarice or gluttony, but they're all wrong. Ardency, that's what's brought most rulers to their knees. A sad, trifling character flaw. I suppose the irony of it is what makes their fall poetic."

"Cease your mad raving. I'll hear none of it," the exalt swatted his hand at the young man.

"W-What do you want?" Olivia's voice quivered from within her husband's breast.

"I want men to be free," the young man smiled at the rose-haired queen.

"Don't bother, my love," Chrom requested, "he's nothing but vague platitudes, unchecked ambition, and an exaggerated ego."

"Who are you?" his wife swallowed.

"How nice of someone to finally ask," the youth grinned broadly, then leered insinuatingly at the exalt. He breathed, "My name is Nihilus."

"Nihilus. So you are the fool who thinks he can tread the path of the Conqueror?" Chrom spat, "You're not half the man Walhart was."

The young man shook his head indignantly, "I should think not. Perhaps Walhart was strong and honorable, yes, but he was ultimately a fool. He failed to recognize that breaking the backs of his foes was not enough. Killing without an effort to maintain order wins one nothing."

Chrom rolled his eyes and looked away from the young man. He whispered to his wife, "How fare you, my dear? Have they hurt you?"

"No," she breathed, checking herself to be sure, "but the castle... I saw it being overrun. I don't know what's become of Lissa or anyone else who was there."

"Arc's doing," frowned the purple-haired youth, "I had no intention of moving against you this soon, but that man can no more be trusted to follow orders than can a toddler."

"And this... 'Arc,'" Chrom cocked an eyebrow, "he is your subordinate?"

"Unfortunately," the young man rubbed his neck.

"One unruly general leading your offensive... That's not much of a strategy," scoffed the exalt.

"No, but the rest of my men follow orders and, as a result, aren't yet in place. That one unruly general's behavior has forced me to change my plans, and involve the other five," he emphasized the final word, staring a challenging glare into the resilient eyes of the exalt.

"Other five," Chrom endeavored to keep his voice strong, "Who are they?"

A smile crept along the youth's jaw, "Now, I can't reveal all my secrets... but I suppose it wouldn't hurt to give you their names. They've taken up the mantle 'The Six Degrees,' or so my men have decided they are to be called. You've already heard a bit about the Tenebrous Hero, Arc. There is also, however, the Silver Soldier, Argent, the Twisted Sage, Datura, the Long Shadow, Vlasis, and the members of my personal detail, the Twin Blades: the Storm Blade, Cyrus, and the Rose Blade, Dahlia. Remember them well."

"I never will understand arrogant warriors and their obsessions with nicknames," Chrom shook his head.

"They don't take them by choice, these are names given to them by those whose favor they win," the purple-haired youth shrugged.

"Right then," Nihilus breathed, "guards, would you be so kind as to remove Exalt Chrom? I'd like a moment with his wife." Chrom's head jolted up, but before he could raise a finger in retaliation, his hand was caught and he was dragged away, kicking and gnashing his teeth to either side, threateningly close to the guards' faces.

"Nihilus! If you put so much as one hair out of place on her, you can bet I'll forego all personal safety to see you rent to shreds!" the exalt called as he was dragged away.

"Not to worry," the young man glanced down at the queen, "I had no such reprehensible thoughts. You seem a much more understanding individual than does your husband, milady."

"P-Please... whatever you're thinking... don't..." she wilted.

He closed his eyes firmly, "Don't concern yourself with it. All I want is a bit of conversation."

"Conversation?" she repeated hesitantly.

"Yes," he smiled softly, "I believe I heard Chrom say your name was Olivia, correct? Where were you born, Olivia?"

* * *

The man scratched his head as the capital shined in the sunlight on the horizon, "Fantastic. You've proven an excellent guide, milady."

"Right," she nodded skeptically, "If you're headed that way, I believe this is where our paths must part."

The man with the leaf-green hair nodded at his traveling companion silently. He stared at her as she tapped her foot a moment, then cleared her throat. "Oh!" he laughed, "Of course. Give this dear lady her payment." The attendant responded immediately and hefted several sacks of coins, dropping them by Anna's feet.

"That'll do," she surmised, a smile flickering in her eyes as she glanced down.

"What did you say your name was, milady?" requested the man.

"I didn't," she folded her arms, "but I suppose you can call me Anna."

"Well met," he bowed his head, "should our paths ever cross again, I am called Cyrus."

"Cyrus," Anna leered at the man, "what's your business in Ylisstol?"

"I'm to relay a message from my employer to the blue-haired man who occupies the castle," Cyrus replied with a sly grin. Anna shrugged. "I hope you find your husband well, my dear," he added, rearing his horse.

The pair sped off into the horizon, leaving the redheaded merchant to sigh and roll her eyes as she lifted the bags of cash onto her back and prepared for the long, cold march home. At least Robin would be waiting for her. That thought warmed her heart. She could see his tense face now, glistening with that silvery facial hair that already stood to make him appear as a wizened old sage. His jaw would crease up into a smile, and his warm, melting, brown eyes would convey a welcome that required no words. He would drop onto the small, but comfortable sofa they had lined up before the fireplace and she would sit with him. Of course, she would have to tell him the news, and they would have to find Morgan, but just for one moment, she could feel the heat of the fire on her body and the warmth of her husband's breast pressed against her face as she held him. That sensation, she sighed, was all that would keep her going through these miles of dreaded snow. The house-she swore she could see it from her current position, despite its distance-glowed in a warm, peachy aura as the blue-black of icy evening enveloped the rest of the world behind and around her.


	7. The Crossroads of the World

"Crap."

That was the plainest way she could put the sentiment to words. She pondered the use of a number of expletives, but found them needlessly severe, and yet anything more benign seemed unfitting of her frustration. At least there was one good piece of news on the table: "Seen -M." Anna could recognize her daughter's unique calligraphy anywhere, slanted to the right so strongly it seemed to be stabbing into the quill and inkwell that sat beside the page, but with the sophistication of cursive lettering. Undoubtedly, Morgan had pursued her father to Ylisstol. Perhaps she would be meeting with Cyrus sooner than she had expected. Of course, the capital would be completely abuzz with news of the attack by now, and Chrom would likely be scrambling for advice, meaning the merchant woman likely wouldn't get much of a chance to enjoy the return to her husband's company. Not for a while, at least.

Anna dropped herself onto their bed, but immediately regretted it as the frame groaned in agony beneath her. It had seen a lot of use over the years, that was certain. A smile alighted Anna's face as she chided herself for the flood of improper thoughts. Still, it reminded her of earlier days, when her husband was less... cold? Was that the word? No, that seemed unfair. He was still a loving man, and a dutiful husband, but Anna had noticed that her husband no longer appeared... interested, not only in her, but in anything. He sat in silence for hours at a time, contemplating what Anna had determined must have been matters too weighty for her to comprehend, or nothing whatsoever. The redheaded woman needed not delude herself, of course. All this had come about on the day young Morgan elected to leave their home. He would prevaricate when she made the accusation, but the proof wasn't difficult to see. Whatever they were doing, Anna hoped her daughter and husband had had a moment to reconcile, even just a moment, and that, perhaps, on joining them, things could feel normal again.

A breath escaped her lips as the tips of Anna's fingers grazed her hair while her palm trailed along her forehead. She would have to go to Ylisstol now, of course. She shivered. Perhaps she would take another moment to warm her frozen legs by the fire before she set out.

* * *

Robin set his free hand upon the railing, the other maintaining a firm grip on the wearied wood of the wheel. He stared at the sea as it parted lithely before the ship's bow, gently rocking it vertically as they rose over the whitened caps of the open ocean's waves. Spray was minimal, and none of it seemed to land on the deck. Perhaps that storm would hold off. Robin almost wished it wouldn't, putting his arm over his face to shield himself from the sunlight for a moment. He grimaced as his eyes resisted opening, having been tightly squinted for so long. The unperturbed sunlight had made it unseasonably hot on the journey to Valm. Robin writhed in his dark robes as the dry heat clung to his chest. Slowly, the former tactician's vision trailed up from the endless expanse of blue to find his daughter, her arms folded onto the railing at the ship's bow as she stared at the same vision her father had abandoned. The Ylissean prince sidled over and draped an arm around her, which she greeted with an affable smile, appearing contented with the distraction. They appeared to be exchanging words in hushed voices. Morgan's father doubted he would care what they were saying or that they would appreciate his hearing, and looked elsewhere.

"Not the worst view to be stuck with, is it?" the prince impressed, looking outward.

"I suppose. Not much to say about it, though, is there?" she mused, eyes half shut.

"There's some beauty to be spoken of in nothingness, isn't there?" Inigo shrugged, tilting his head to his beloved.

Morgan's pale brown eyes reflected the sea a moment more, now widened, "No. Nothing isn't worth anything."

Inigo paused a moment and looked askance, "I'm confused, do you mean that literally, or are you playing some kind of word game where... I don't know..."

"Don't trouble yourself with it," she hugged him, "I love you. Is that satisfactory?"

"More than you know," he grinned broadly.

"Morgan!" the call came down, causing the pair to look up, "I'd like a word with you in my quarters."

"Yes, father," she accepted flatly.

"Inigo, be a good lad and man the ship, would you?" he demanded, stepping away.

"I mean not to make an issue of myself," the prince rubbed his neck, "but I've never steered a ship before."

"And, with any luck, you won't now," Robin smiled, descending the small staircase, "Just keep us going straight until I'm done, okay?"

"Very well," he nodded, walking opposite the former tactician. Morgan watched as her father passed her, his hand bidding her follow.

The young woman kept a few paces behind her father as he pushed the old wooden door open and walked straight through to a dusty, forgotten, sorry-looking little room. Piles of books spilled from nearby shelves without any effort seeming to have been made to replace them and cobwebs, as well as a noticeable layer of dust coated the remainder of the place. Robin trudged behind a miserable excuse for a yellowing wooden bench and sat in a chair that sounded as though it nearly snapped. He gestured for Morgan to seat herself across from him, in a chair that, despite all odds, seemed even worse for wear. Begrudgingly, she descended upon it gently, for fear of producing the same effect.

"I neglected to ask," Robin began hoarsely, "perhaps because I was afraid to know the answer... Morgan, did you see your mother out there?" The older man's eyes seemed to already glaze over, though Morgan knew well that her father wad quite focused on the answer. The sparkling in his pupil told her that.

"...No," Morgan replied honestly. The question that would follow was the one she truly needed to prepare her answer for.

"Do you believe..." the former tactician struggled with the word, his jaw clenching subconsciously, "That is, are you inclined to think... What I mean is..." He grunted in frustration. Asking a simple question shouldn't be this difficult.

"Father," Morgan's eyes dropped to the pathetic excuse for a desk, "I can't... The only thing I ever saw for certain was... I wasn't more than a block from mom's shop when... well, when the world was set aflame."

It was the answer Robin had been expecting, and yet the words still stabbed into his chest. A chill shocked its way through his spine. The redhead watched his fist clench on the desk. "I see," he managed. His eyes were glassy. Morgan said nothing. Really, what could she say? There was no proper protocol to explain the death of a parent. There was nothing she could say that would make her father feel any different. Instead she stared at him as his gaze refused to break from the desk. "Damn her," he sighed at length, "If she could've left that miserable shop for one day..."

"It wasn't her fault," Morgan defended, "she was there for me. We were going to meet."

"Oh? What for?" Robin cocked an eyebrow.

Morgan cursed herself. Her family had all been terrible liars, and she was no exception, "We... met with some regularity, every month. We'd catch up and she'd make me lunch."

"I could have made you lunch," a vague smirk came onto the older man's face. Morgan elected to say nothing. "But it's all right," he reclined in the chair as it begged for reprieve, "Father is far too restrictive. He doesn't know what's good for young girls- women. He doesn't know what he's talking about. He doesn't understand me. He's only concerned with his own thoughts, isn't that right?"

"You're every bit as contemptuous as you were seven years ago," she growled, "A shame, all that gray hair and you've still not matured a day."

"Don't talk to me about immaturity, child," he coughed, calmly dropping a fist onto the desk. Another snapping sound followed.

"Gods' sakes," she threw her hands up, "I'm not your 'child' anymore, all right? I'm a young woman, with her own place in life, not property whose every waking moment you're meant to supervise!"

"Um, Robin?" Inigo called worriedly from outside.

The former tactician rose from his chair and brushed past his daughter, proceeding to open the door, "What the hell is it, boy?"

"I may not be able to handle the ship anymore!" the pitch of his voice heightened.

"Oh, for Naga's sake, just keep it straight! Couldn't be simpler..." Robin's words trailed slowly as rain pounded on the deck of the ship and waves rose in frightening crashes, shoving at the sides of her hull. "Hell," the former tactician grunted, "All right, Inigo, fasten down those extra sails! Morgan, get all the ropes on deck secure! At best, I'll sail us right out of this mess, at worst, we'll hunker down and wait it out."

"Got it," Morgan nodded, and attended to her task. She found the coils loose rope dotting the ship and began knotting them together, the rain streaking down her hair and matting it to her forehead as she worked.

Inigo leapt to the port side of the ship and pulled at a rope, trying to bring the sail down. Robin shouted, "Not from there, you lout, you have to climb and pull it up!"

"C-Climb?" Inigo shuddered as he stared up at the ship's mast.

Robin struggled as the _Starling's_ wheel shoved down onto him, forcing the former tactician to brace his shoulders, as if holding back the waves themselves as they continued to thunder upon the ship's hulling, tossing gallons of black water on deck.

"Dammit," Morgan grunted as she pulled tighter on the rope, it snapped loose as she released it, "I can't get them to stay, dad!"

"Little busy!" her father replied, his face turning red as rain lashed it amid the stress.

A thud sounded across the deck. Inigo grunted in pain. Without a moment's hesitation, the redhead hurdled over her current work to the collapsed prince's side, "Oh gods, Inigo, what happened?"

"I tried to climb to get the sail," he sputtered, "a wind caught me off-guard and... and..." The prince needed say nothing more. Morgan's eyes digressed and found his leg bent at an inhuman angle. She turned and scrunched her nose in disgust.

"Father! Inigo's hurt!" the redhead cried.

"Might be some vulneraries in my quarters," he grunted, "best I can do right now." Morgan pushed herself up shakily on the slick deck, now completely flooded, and took a step forward to make for her father's quarters, but she was instantly interrupted as the _Starling_ groaned in agony and shifted onto her side over a massive swell, the ocean surging at the ship's starboard side and threatening the crew with an eclipsing, churning pit of night-black on the opposite side, from which they were suspended almost vertically. The thief was paralyzed by fear, and slipped as the all that wasn't nailed to the deck, herself included, rushed toward the abyss. "Dammit!" Robin roared, "the whole ship's going to break apart if we don't get out of this!"

Morgan only barely heard his voice as she clawed at the wood, splintering beneath her fingernails, to keep herself attached to the deck.

More snaps resounded, and Robin furrowed his brow. He knew the wheel wouldn't be enough to save them, but he had hoped. Now he had lost control of the Starling. He looked away from his labor to see his daughter kicking and crying incoherently as her drenched face sank and paled, clutching desperately at the planks beneath her. "MORGAN!" he jumped from his spot, nearly flying off the deck as it hopped up in an angle from another rogue wave.

Morgan cried for her father, at least she thought she did. Her mind was as flooded as her clothing as she called out in a language she herself failed to recognize. She was deaf to everything as she sputtered, and her heart sank as her grip wrenched open and she fell, air whistling beside her. The water was cold and dark. The impact was barely felt. The young woman's eyes fell shut. Silence.

In a way, it was relaxing. The darkness provided an opportunity. Morgan's mind had been such a whirlwind of consideration since her rendezvous with her father. There was so much else she would rather think about then another battle. The redhead felt a moment's glimpse of warmth drum in her chest as she thought of her mother's smiling face. She even tried to chuckle as she was briefly reminded of her husband's antics and was soon equally amused by her own use of the word "husband." It was strange even to her to think of the young man with the sapphire hair in such a way. They weren't like either of their own parents in their marriage: Morgan didn't wait at home for Inigo to make his return so they could share dinner and fireside chats, rather they spent days, weeks, and even months with their own affairs, but when they rejoined, that was what made the time worth it. It seemed to make the love they shared even stronger with each fond farewell and sudden reconnection.

Then her mood fell. Morgan had reminded herself of her mother. What would she ever do now that that beautiful woman was gone? Her father likely wouldn't forgive her, and she wasn't much inclined to leap back into his embrace, either. She hadn't thought much about the loss at the moment she escaped that hellhole, but now the feeling truly struck her. Her mother, one half of her being... she was gone. Of course, she felt the presence of the cold darkness in which she was enveloped, and realized she might be dead herself.

Until she felt a tug on her arm. It took only a moment, but it might have been days to the redhead as the light momentarily blinded her and her lungs swelled to capacity with a rush of freezing air, causing her entire body to shudder. Her limbs flailed instinctively in the icy blue, and water covered her face and splashed into her eyes, nose, and mouth. None of this, however, disturbed her father, who pulled harder and plucked the thief from the seas. She gasped like a fresh catch as she was laid out onto the patch of deck wood. "For the record," coughed Robin as seawater dripped down his soaking hood, as well as his nose and bearded chin, "You'll always be my child."

"I-Inigo..." she huffed, "Where?"

"Lover boy is just fine," the former tactician waved his hand to the right. Morgan turned her head to find her husband clutching his leg in one hand, and a segment of the Starling's railing in another. He fed her a weak smile.

"Thank... you," the young woman breathed. As she regained her composure and her breath, she sat up, "I... You know, I have no intention of cupping your cheek and telling you I was wrong."

"I wouldn't have dreamed it," the vague smirk was back, "Well, start kicking. It's a long way to Valm."

"Hardy-har-har," growled the prince from his driftwood sanctuary.

"I wasn't joking," the former tactician breathed, "You've still got one good leg, haven't you?"

"Morgan," Inigo's hair fell and teased the surface of the water, "have I mentioned that I hate your father?"

"Have I mentioned that saving a one-hundred-seventy-pound fruit with a bum leg wasn't in my plans for this trip?" the older man grumbled in reply. Morgan looked out at the setting sun, now visible through the parting steel-gray clouds. Maybe permanent limbo would have been a bit more relaxing.

* * *

The rose-haired woman watched the older woman of similar build with a sneer. Nihilus was before her, talking about his early days. She didn't need to listen; she had heard all this information, these stories, ins days past. Nihilus had loved to share his more vulnerable past with her. Confessing his weakness, he had said, gave him more strength than he thought possible. Of course, here it was nothing more than a sympathy grab. That much was obvious, but she watched the other woman nod her head earnestly, with those wide, shimmering eyes, and wondered if that was what she had looked like; so bright, so naïve... It would be cute if it weren't annoying.

"I fell on hard times after my parents were killed by agents of the Conqueror. I took to the streets, like many a Valmese child was forced to in the wake of Walhart's storm of jack-booted thugs. That was when I met Dahlia, over there," the purple-haired young man thumbed at the rose-haired woman.

"That is... regrettable, but then why do you choose to further sow the seeds of war?" Olivia furrowed her brow.

A smile pulled along the corners of the young man's mouth. He shook his head while shrugging his shoulders, "You make me sound like some sort of marauder. My objective, dear lady, is not war for the sake of war, as your tone would appear to imply, but rather to wipe the slate clean, to create a world that will be the true vision of peace."

"I still fail to see how war brings about ultimate peace," Olivia murmured defensively.

"Allow me to explain it in this way, dear," Nihilus made a point of creating eye contact between them, "Growing up beneath the Conqueror's heel meant I had to learn to be strong, as those who weren't strong were destroyed, simple as that. The same was true when Walhart fell: he was bested by the might of the dynasts, as well as the Ylissean League, and was replaced by leaders more powerful and, thus, appropriate to the position."

"Such as yourself?" the rose-haired queen noted.

The young man laughed, "No, I am not among this country's leaders. Do not mistake my purpose for conceit; I merely submit the argument that war is the perfect catalyst to bring out the greatest power that exists in this world. Does that make sense?"

"No..." Olivia ducked her head, "I'm sorry, I've tried to listen, but I hear only more madness."

He smiled and shut his eyes, "Not to worry. You will understand, one day." Nihilus stared at the queen another moment before whistling and waggling his finger in the air, "Return the exalt to his bride. We're done for today." The steel doors opened loudly as Chrom, still biting and shoving at his guards, was thrown back into the cell.

"Olivia," he reached out for her, "tell me he didn't..."

"No, I-I'm all right," she breathed, "We only talked."

"Still such a low opinion of me," Nihilus shrugged with a sour note as he leered at the exalt, "What a shame. You'll see the truth in time, though." The young man's composure was broken as he erupted into a loud cough, followed by another, then another, and still one more until it was apparent he was out of breath.

"Master Nihilus!" the rose-haired woman who stood off to his side approached him. Noting his condition, with comprehension in her eyes, she held the young man's face and subtly removed a small item from her pocket and eased into the purple-haired man's suffocating mouth, "You must remember to take more appropriate caution, my lord."

He recovered quickly, taking a deep breath and nodding appreciatively to his associate, "Thank you, Dahlia. What would I do without you? I believe I'll take this opportunity to retire for the evening."

"Will milord require additional blankets, clothing, or nourishment before his rest?" she responded, standing straight.

"No," he waved his hand genially, "but thank you for your concern, dear. Goodnight to you."

"Goodnight, sir," she bowed. The young man's footsteps resounded through the hall as he pivoted away.

"You seem a dutiful guard," offered the exalt after a pause.

"Milord receives the honors he is due," she refused to acknowledge him.

"And why is he due those honors?" Chrom pressed, "Why is it you serve this man, and not someone with nobler aims at heart?"

A fire lit in the girl's eyes as her glance cut a swath down at the blue-haired man, "Milord's aims are nobler than any of those dandies who are so galling as to choose themselves 'nobles' in this land might even begin to consider. Speak not of that which you fail to understand, fool!"

"I suppose I'll take that as a 'no' on my offer to join me," the exalt sighed. The rose-haired girl scowled at him.

* * *

"Uck, this collar is so itchy," the blonde groaned, "This is why I don't do cloaks."

"Tell me 'bout it! I can't see a derned thing 'neath this cotton-pickin' hood!" her husband compounded.

"I beg your tolerance just a few minutes more, good sir and madam," the silver-haired man beckoned, "Please do remain silent while I speak to the guards, then, once we're out of sight, you may remove your garments as you see fit."

"Be ready, fair lad of the word," the excitable young man beside him declared, "My sword hand twitches in anticipation of blood to soon be spilt; we are in imminent danger!"

"We certainly are, if you can't manage your twitching a few moments more," he grumbled.

"Halt!" called one of the assembling border guards, "Who goes there?"

"Good morrow, sir. My name is Etienne," the silver-haired man smiled, "I was told to remove these two from the capitol; a pair of Ylissean priests."

"Why weren't we sent advance notice?" another guard watched them critically.

"Lord Arc is not much for foresight, is he?" chuckled the young man.

"Watch your tongue about Lord Arc, or I'll box your ears, you louse," barked still another guard.

"If you'd just allow us passage, we'll be out of your way in no time at all, I assure you," the young man bowed.

The guard before them looked each member of their ragtag party up and down, "'Ey, has that one got purple hair?"

Steven felt a bead of sweat appear on his neck, "Er, I don't believe so... why do you ask?"

"Yeah, it is!" he roared, "Hey boys, mount up! The little princess and 'er hubby are tryin' to make a getaway!" The men around the guard raised their axes.

"Begone, fiend!" Owain shouted, jumping at the chance to slash across one of their chests.

"So much for planning," Steven rolled his eyes. One of the guards charged and swept broadly with his axe, a clumsy move. The silver-haired young man sidestepped the strike and retaliated with a snap of his fingers that resulted in a bolt of lightning scorching the assailant. He uttered a guttural moan and fell. The remaining guard had taken the opportunity to get behind the young man, and seized him by the throat.

"Gotcha, ya wiry little bastard," he chortled, holding his neck between his elbow, "Now how about the princess steps over here real nice-like..." He was cut off: Steven reared back and bucked the back of his skull into the aggressor's face, breaking his nose. Given the opportunity, the silver-haired man shoved himself forward and broke his captor's hold. He pivoted in place and blew the pained guard away with a swell of fire that consumed him quickly.

"I was hoping to avoid something like that," Steven rubbed the back of his head gingerly.

"I see you've gotten better with your magic, Steven," the princess nodded, dropping her hood.

"I suppose I must have inherited some ability from my father, eh?" he nodded, "I'm nowhere near as gifted as he, but, any port in a storm, as they say."

"I think Robin would be very proud," Lissa grinned at the young man.

"Of what?" he lamented, "My failure to execute my own plan, or my meager ability to barely survive with my own life?"

"Oh, come now," she hooked her arm around the young man, "You know your father wouldn't tolerate such relentless self-deprecation."

"I had just hoped my own designs might succeed for once," he moped, "Ah, well... it seems father's tactical genius never made it into my repertoire... At any rate, come away. We should be safe..." The silver-haired man glanced at the fallen bodies, blood pooling around Owain's victim, the other two charred beyond human recognition, "...Now." He scanned the horizon. Regna Ferox would be... ten days march, at most.

* * *

"Well, well, well," chuckled the familiar voice, "I've already missed you bunches, big fella."

"Stow the 'disaffected hard-nose' crap for once, Cyrus," grunted the man across from him, "If you're here, I have to assume it's because Daddy Nihilus needed something done, but was to chickenshit to take care of it himself."

"More like he's too busy for self-important blowhards," scoffed the green-haired swordsman.

"You want this to come to blows?" the Tenebrous Hero pushed up from his recently seized throne.

"Oh, I'd love that," the Storm Blade grinned, "but Nihilus seems to like you, for whatever gods-forsaken reason, so I'm just here to tell you to keep your ass in line, lest my next visit be a little less friendly."

"Well, then," Arc exhaled, "care to spar for a round, 'friend?' I think it'd make both of us feel better."

Cyrus put his fingers to his chin, he was supposed to be above this clueless lout, and yet, when the clueless lout was right, he was right. Nihilus might not be thrilled with him, but there would be no way he would back down from a chance to knock that pompous ass flat on his back, "Sounds like fun."


	8. Blue Moon

Splash.

One wave surged noisily up.

Splash.

There was another. The water rushed back and forth, declaring its presence loudly but measuredly.

Morgan's eyes remained shut. She was covered in salt from the water and sand from the shore that clung to her. Her thighs were chafing from swimming and treading water in her tight pants for so long. The sun was unforgivingly hot, baking the redhead in her clothes, despite the sea being mostly ice-cold. Birds squawked mockingly overhead, looking for their next meal on the cerulean blue. The young woman opened her eyes to a face-full of sand. That was what she had expected. With effort, she pushed herself off the ground and forward, raising her head. She became aware of her father doing the same.

Another waved rolled forward and swirled up the sediment beneath the thief, making her stomach and chest itch. She hastened forward, crawling on her elbows. At a sudden sensation, she opened her mouth and retched, spitting out at least an ounce of seawater. She shuddered as the bitter, sickly taste encroached on her tongue,"Gross."

"Eighty-seven," she heard her father mumble as he finally pushed himself into a crouched position, then stood, water and sand pouring down each side of his vestments, "I took that ship out on eighty-seven separate trips and never had an issue."

"I don't think I can share your love of the sea," the redhead mused, rubbing her head. There was even dried salt in her hair.

"Little help!" grumbled a man's voice insistently. Morgan knew her father wouldn't move and pushed herself up from the sand. Her husband clung loosely to the shore, hair looking ragged and eyes tired. She had forgotten about his leg; it was still limp.

"I gotcha," Morgan announced as she grabbed his arms and hoisted him out of the water with some difficulty, "Oof... You're heavier than you look, you know?"

"And after I work so hard to maintain my figure," he protested with a smirk. He sat up on the sand with her help.

"Father," Morgan looked to the former tactician, "Inigo needs help. We have to get him to a doctor before we do anything else."

"I know," he stretched his arms, sighing, "We'll get him there."

"Would you mind doing it today?!" Inigo barked, following a pause.

"Give me a moment," he cracked his neck, "Come, Morgan. Bring your husband along and we'll find him a physician."

Morgan resented having to carry the young man along, but then she couldn't really expect her father to do it: he was limping along the sand already. It didn't take the small group long to arrive at the colorful little fishing village that bordered the shore, only necessitating that they climb a moderately high stone wall. A small challenge for transporting Inigo, but they managed well enough. From that point, Robin began to consult individuals around the town for the location of a healer. No one seemed to know, greatly frustrating the tactician.

Eventually, they entered a merchant's general store, Robin seating himself at a stool by the counter provided for customers. The merchant greeted them with a general grunt of welcome. "Morning," Robin said in reply to him, "Mind if I ask you something?"

The man stared back hesitantly. His eyes shifted to each side.

Robin laughed, "Nothing sinister, I just want to know if there's a healer around."

"N-No..." the man quivered, "not a healer, just a merchant."

Robin rolled his eyes, "I know, but are there any healers around here?"

"Not my business," the man moved into the back of the store, "Not... can't talk about... Not my business." Robin stared at him as he hid himself.

"Something's wrong here," the former tactician whispered to his daughter.

"Well, what are we going to do?" the redhead shrugged irritably.

"They're scared of something," he nodded back to the disappeared merchant, "an authority, perhaps. Even if not, he might not be as afraid to speak up."

"And, pray, where will we find such an authority?" Morgan scowled.

"Big buildings are a good start," he noted, leading her and her husband out the door, "or anything that looks ostensibly newer than the rest of the town."

"What about that one?" Inigo pointed, "The gilded building, with the green roof." Robin nodded indicatively.

The trio marched toward the ornate office and entered casually, Robin leading the group. A clerk sat at a desk before them, busily tearing away at a page with a quill. "Excuse me," Robin announced, causing the man to look up, "whose office is this?"

"Bar'kim," the man replied curtly, dropping his head back down.

"And is he the local authority?" the former tactician pressed.

"Yes. Chief executive for the town," the clerk hadn't looked back up.

"Can we speak with him?" Robin continued, "We were just hoping to find a local physician."

"No," he spat.

Robin shut his eyes tightly, then drifted over the clerk's desk and slammed his hand on the wood, "Listen. I need a healer. You or Bar'kim are going to tell me where I can find one. Understand?"

That caught the clerk's attention, "Guards!"

Metal plating shifted from a hallway nearby. "It's always something," Robin rolled his eyes. A group of five men in full armor stared at the older man from behind masks. "Look here," Robin stepped toward them, "I just want to find a damn doctor!"

One drew a blade and swung at the former tactician.

He doubled back, a thread of his cloak being sliced by the steel, "Really? I don't have time for this."

Another swing. The sounds of the other guards withdrawing their blades from their scabbards sounded off the walls.

"You're making a mistake!" Robin continued back to the wall.

One of the guards leered at Morgan, who continued to support her husband, letting him lean on her as they stood in the doorway.

"Don't even think about it," Robin hissed.

Another thrust from the guards was aimed at the man in the Plegian cloak, but one trailed off closer to Morgan. "Father?" she called, "Can't reach my sword right now."

"Oh, for gods' sakes," he rolled his eyes. Robin reached into his cloak and unsheathed his blade, leaping into a strike that cut down the guard facing Morgan. The redhead exhaled uncomfortably as the blade sliced the wind near her ears. The remaining guards took the opportunity to strike haphazardly at the former tactician. He laughed in the face of the their strikes, or he would have, if it wouldn't likely mean his death. Their attack was uncoordinated; Robin moved easily from a parry and counterattack into a repost, then ducked out of the way of a third strike in time to preempt the fourth.

Morgan stared at the guards as they collapsed. Their suits of armor loosened as they fell. She felt something was missing.

Two guards left. One charged at Robin with a vertical slash. The former tactician stuck his foot out in line with the opponent, then hooked it around that of his foe to bring the guard crashing noisily to the floor. The other whipped a horizontal strike at Robin, but was halted when the tactician grabbed hold of his arm and twisted it. He disarmed the guard, but felt odd: no sound of bones snapping. That move was meant to break the foe's arm.

The guard on the floor grasped desperately at Robin's leg and caught him by surprise, halting him and knocking him off his footing. The guard whose arm he had seized now returned the favor by wrapping an icy iron grip around his throat.

"Get back!" Morgan kicked him to the floor. Inigo smiled as he rested against the wall. She was beautiful even as she fought.

Robin seized the chance and kicked at the guard clinging to his foot. Wrenching himself free, he pushed himself up and threw the entirety of his weight into a stomp on the floored guard's head. Unsure of the effect due to the helmet, Robin reclaimed his sword and plunged it into a slit near the throat of the fallen suit of armor.

The remaining guard had gotten back up in time to strike at Morgan. She held him back, but could gain no ground. Robin interjected, grabbing the man's attacking arm again, however, this time throwing him to the floor and repeating the process he had used on the other guard.

"Wait a minute..." Morgan declared aloud as the last guard fell, "That's it!"

"What's it?" her father grunted as he took a breath.

"Look," she indicated the fallen suits of armor, "no blood."

She was right. Robin looked down at the opponent he had just slain and attempted to remove his helmet. It came off easily: there was nothing beneath it. The entirety of the weighty suit was empty. The former tactician approached the now stricken clerk, "What in the hells is going on here?"

"Not... my business," the man perspired.

"Oh, for...!" Robin shook his fist, "Morgan, Inigo, we're going upstairs." They did as they were told and worked their way up the staircase past the quivering clerk. When Robin had fully ascended the stairs, he found a man in a teal cloak sitting behind a desk, "Knock, knock."

"What?" the man started, picking his head up.

"Bar'kim?" the former tactician supposed. The man nodded nervously, "What's the matter, didn't hear the scuffle downstairs?"

"What do you want?" he grunted in a display of resilience.

"I want a healer," he gestured forcibly to the Ylissean prince, "and I want to know who the hell those guards were, and why no one in this town seems willing to utter a word. Can you tell me that?"

The man stared cautiously at Robin a moment before reaching into his desk. "I don't think so," a knife flew from Morgan's hand and pinned Bar'kim's sleeve to the wall.

"Talk," Robin growled, making himself intimidating by lurching over the desk.

The cloaked man's composure broke, "Th-There... There are no healers here- ack! But... but... I don't know who the guards are! They're appointed by out sovereign, Lord Datura!"

"That's better," Robin sighed with finality, "Where can I meet Lord Datura?"

"He might still be in Hae're, the capital of this province, about three days' march to the southwest, but I'd heard he was headed to Ylisstol," Bar'kim continued to mumble.

Robin leered at the cloaked man, then reached over him and yankee the knife from the wall with a grunt. "We'll have to try," the former tactician declared, beckoning his daughter and son-in-law.

Bar'kim's head sank to the desk in relief. As the group left his office, however, he felt a cold, stinging sensation. Tears clung to his eyes as he murmured silently to himself before he collapsed back onto the desk loudly and his flesh turned blue.

"That... could've gone better," Morgan sighed, still supporting her husband's weight.

"Oof, that looks bad," chuckled a voice before them, "You look like you could use a little fixing up."

"Finally, a pleasant surprise," Robin exhaled, "I wondered where this all had landed you, Sylvia."

The performer drew up the sides of her baby blue cloak and giggled as she stroked aside a curly chestnut-colored bang that rested on her face, "No fear, daddy. I'm here to help." She raised her staff and, in an instant, a light enveloped the Ylissean prince as his flesh wound itself back together.

"Still hurts like a bastard," he grimaced.

"Sorry," she laughed, "Even magic has limits on its abilities."

"Just as long as you don't plan on sawing me in half... again," Inigo leered at the girl fearfully. Marrying Morgan had come with its fair share of perils.

"Quit your whining, lover boy," she dismissed him, "that was one time. Anyway, your leg should be about healed."

He tested it and nodded in relief, "Yes, that's better... I mean, ooh, oh no, I can't move! Morgan, my dear, you'll have to hold me some more..."

"In your dreams," she giggled as she pushed him off, "My feet are killing me."

"So, what's the plan, chief?" Sylvia glanced up at her father.

"After," he looked back to Bar'kim's office, "consulting the locals, we were planning on going to Hae're."

"Hmm..." the girl tapped her finger on her chin, "Nah, I don't think you wanna go there. The stars tell me that's a bad plan."

"Sylvia, honey," Robin kneeled to his daughter's height, "we've talked about this..."

"No, just trust me this one time," she insisted with more than a hint of embarrassment.

"Where else do you suppose we go?" he offered.

"Lieben," she announced grandly, "Another Valmese province altogether, near Rosanne."

"That's quite a ways..." Robin folded his arms and tapped his finger impatiently.

"Daddy," she insisted, hands on her hips, "I'm saying this for a reason."

"All right," he gave up, "I hope this works out."

"No doubt!" she assured the wearied party, who grimaced at her enthusiasm, "Now, let's move, soldiers! Left, left, left, right, left! Left, left..."

They buried their heads.

* * *

The men had assembled around their commander, forming a ring to watch the challenger as he played with his sword, staring down the length of it at the reflection of his foe.

"Going to make a move?" the Tenebrous Hero puffed out his chest.

"I'm just wondering if I should stab you in the chest and let you bleed a lot, or in the leg so you can't walk without a limp ever again," the man with the leaf-green hair replied coolly, his eyes not acknowledging his adversary.

"Big talk," Arc brandished his axe, "I think I might shatter your kneecaps for that."

"Tell me, Arc, why have you got to be such a bastard?" the Storm Blade snickered.

"You understand better than most of them, Cyrus," the blue-haired man cleared his throat, "Nihilus can preach his pretty purple prose about the way the world needs to work all day, as long as it keeps me on the field of battle, killing, I can do it for the rest of my life. I don't care what he wants."

"Clearly," Cyrus nodded, "but he might like you a bit better if you at least showed a hint of restraint now and then."

"That's your problem, Cyrus," he grunted, "you talk too much. If you just fought, like me, we could be as thick as thieves."

"Too bad," the swordsman smiled, "I suppose some things are simply meant to be."

"On that, we can agree," Arc got into his stance to receive his opponent.

* * *

"Are we prepared, Frederick?" the princess wondered aloud, staring through the brush at the front gate.

"Lady Lucina, we have our weapons," the knight sighed, "but there is simply no way I can advise launching an attack before knowing our enemies' number."

"There's no way a full-scale invasion could have found landfall yet," Lucina asserted, "They can't be more than a gaggle of mercenaries. Look at the rags on that one."

"This purported gaggle of mercenaries has managed to seize the Ylissean throne from very capable hands, milady," Frederick argued, "We must approach them with caution, lest we be destroyed."

"Attacking the enemy at this time is... a poor decision," reported a gravelly voice from behind.

Both Ylisseans drew their weapons and faced the sound. "And what are you, that usurps the silence of night?" Lucina leered.

The man's face was veiled by a faded red hood, "My name matters not. I bring you news that will spare you your folly."

"And why should we trust one who has emerged from the shadows thusly?" Frederick moved forward to stand slightly in front of the princess.

"I come bearing no weapons," he explained, "and I ask nothing great of you, only that you wait a few minutes more. A league will join you from the south in short order, and the beast, you will see, is afflicted with plague. It will soon be weakened."

"Beast? Explain yourself, sir," Lucina demanded.

"There is no time," insisted their visitor, "you must heed my word. Only stay your blade until you find a familiar face, then may you collapse upon your foe together."

"But whom?" Frederick demanded. He was ignored; the figure had taken off into the murky shadows from whence he had emerged.

Lucina trailed her eyes at lightning speed in searching for him, but found nothing. She resigned and stared at her protector, "What do you make of that, Frederick?"

"I am... uncertain, milady. His presence fills me with unease, yet..." the knight shrugged, "I see little hazard that might befall us in heeding a measure of extra caution."

"Very well," she nodded, lying on her stomach to peer beneath the brush, "We will wait a bit longer."

* * *

"Hrah!" Arc shouted as he swiped his axe.

"Too slow!" his foe laughed, rolling out of the way. He loosed a retaliatory slash, deflected at the last moment by the Tenebrous Hero in a spark of steel.

"Where you goin'?" Arc laughed, breaking Cyrus's attack with another push and seizing the swordsman's arm.

"How about here?" came the response as he Storm Blade spun over his opponent's back, flinging him to the ground and breaking his hold.

"Bah!" Arc roared, swinging his axe wildly at Cyrus's feet from the floor.

"Pitiful," the man with the leaf-green hair taunted as he danced away from the onslaught.

"You're mine!" the blue-haired man persisted, rising to charge at his foe again.

Cyrus planted a boot in his face to stop him, "Get back!" A kick caused the Tenebrous Hero to stumble backward. His nose bled.

"Gonna kill you!" Arc affirmed, rushing once more.

Cyrus swung to block him, but his eyes jumped open in surprise as the Tenbrous Hero halted his blade with his bare hand. Crimson life ebbed from the blue-haired man's fingers as he grinned viciously. "Arc, you crazed sonuvabitch!" the Storm Blade grunted.

"Gotcha!" he announced, raising his axe over their heads.

Cyrus frowned and let go of his blade, rolling out of the way once more.

* * *

"It can't be m-much further...! Th-This way!" Kellam huffed, hurrying ahead in his full armor.

"This is going to mean trouble..." Stahl grimaced to himself, "We don't have much of a force to go up against the same guys who managed to seize Ylisstol. They must be some sort of beasts to have gotten this far."

"Ocular determination registers the object of our pursuit to be within requisite range to manufacture a coordination by which to strike," Miriel observed

"In real words, Miriel," Stahl pleaded.

"She means she can see Ylisstol castle, and that we have enough time to form a plan of attack," Maribelle translated.

"Thank you, Maribelle," Stahl nodded.

"...Well?" the noblewoman waited.

"'Well' what?" Stahl looked back.

"We need a plan," she repeated.

"And?" the paladin hesitated.

"And you're the best commander we've got," Cordelia suggested.

"What?" he jumped, "No, I'm no strategist! I can't lead an army! I just serve in one!"

"Then perhaps you'll let me try?" hoped a woman's tenor.

"Gods above..." Stahl was stricken, "Lucina?"

"Milord's parley went awry," Frederick summarized, "Suffice it to say we are prepared to join our strength to yours."

"That's perfect!" Stahl wiped his forehead, "Now we have a real commander. My sword is yours, milady."

"You honor me with your fealty, Stahl, but the last thing I need is dissent: are any of you unwilling to accept me as your commanding officer?" Lucina looked out among the gathered former Shepherds.

"I will always serve House Ylisse," Cordelia pledged.

"Gregor already in debt to Ylisse. This time, he pay you," the mercenary replied.

"Maybe I'll just stay to the back..." Gaius began. Maribelle smacked him on the head with her staff, "Ouch! I mean, yeah, sure. I can't wait. I'm all yours, Bluebird."

"And of course I'll protect your house, dear," Maribelle smiled.

"If you can see me, I'm with you," Kellam chuckled.

"It would be highly discourteous to disengage in my tenured profession and consented covenant at so critical a juncture," Miriel concluded with a nod.

"Thank you all," she bowed, "Now, let's discuss movements."

Stahl exhaled. They had a chance.

* * *

Arc panted, his broad, muscular shoulders heaving, "You're a slippery bastard, there's no getting around that. But bein' slick only gets you so far, whereas my strength means I can pressuring you 'til those nimble legs run outta room to hide."

Cyrus shook his head and laughed, "The thing I love best about you, Arc, is that you never even realize how wrong you are." The Storm Blade landed two quick, successive punches on the blue-haired man, "You may be stronger than I, but greater speed means I can still dole out more damage."

"You're nothing!" the Tenebrous Hero lunged, missing.

"Couple that with the fact that I'm obviously more clever than you," the green-haired swordsman laughed.

"Shut up!" his compatriot roared, swinging his axe. Another blind miss.

"And," Cyrus picked up his sword, staring at the veins of blood stained onto its steel, "don't you know anything, Arc? Swords beat axes any day of the week."

"I'll crush you!" he roared wearily in answer, flailing again.

"Tell me, Arc, how does it feel to know you're beaten in every category?" Cyrus cackled.

"DIE!" the cry rang out. A sound of metal sliding into flesh reverberated through the castle halls. The Storm Blade stood still as his blade protruded through the Tenebrous Hero's side.

"What an idiot," the man with the leaf-green hair scoffed, retrieving his blade. Arc slumped to the floor and grunted in anger and pain. "He'll live," Cyrus announced, assuaging the fears of his followers, watching dumbly.

"Lord Arc, sir!" shouted a young man as he burst through the castle doors, "A group's headed this way! I hear they've got Ylissean royalty among them!"

"Impossible," Arc propped himself up on his knee.

"Oh, this is too good," the swordsman with the leaf-green hair smiled, rubbing his palms together, "Well, you can take care of this little trifle, can't you, Mr. Tenebrous Hero?"

"You would leave me to die?" he growled.

"Oh, no," Cyrus feigned indignation, "I only feel that I'd be getting in the way of the mastery of the great Tenebrous Hero. I'll just see myself out."

"If I get out of this..." the blue-haired man struggled, "I'm gonna have that smug smile of yours served to me on a silver platter."

"I look forward to it," he grinned, sauntering out.

* * *

"Someone's coming out," Cordelia announced warily, watching the gates, "A man with green hair, looks a bit worn out. He's headed this direction."

"Shall we ready our weapons?" Stahl consulted his commander.

"No, I know that guy," reported a voice, "just some traveller looking to meet with Chrom. Probably got attacked by whoever's in there now and is seeing himself out. Oh, incidentally, how are you guys?"

"Anna!" Stahl rejoiced, "Wow, Lady Luck's really piling the gifts at our feet today; first Lucina, and now you."

"Is Robin there?" Anna pointed.

"I don't know," the viridian knight sighed, "I was just mean to gather the other Shepherds, but when I found out the castle was being occupied, I figured I couldn't just let it slide."

"I guess it can't hurt either way," the merchant shrugged.

"Will you join us, Lady Anna?" the princess inquired.

"For now, why not?" she smiled, "But my top priority is finding my husband and kids."

"Fair enough. I'll take as much assistance as you're willing to give," Lucina nodded.

The attack began at Lucina's command: Stahl rode down into the first line of the enemy forces, which was weak: a group of novice swordsmen who were utterly unprepared for the lance-wielding cavalier, who swept them aside with ease.

This blitz was complimented by Maribelle, who took advantage of the enemy's apparent unfamiliarity with magic to blast a hole in their guard with a burst of magic. Miriel followed behind more slowly and held back the bulk of the infantry with her own pillars of flame and bolts of lightning.

A guard held fast at the castle gates, but was brushed aside by Cordelia's impeccable lancework as her husband flung himself through the massive doors. He girded himself and bore the brunt of their attacks, meeting axes with axes and swords with swords as best he was able.

Anna kept up the rally by sporadically reinforcing their wounded numbers as they ripped along the open field, stopping to swipe aside several foes with her own blade, of course.

Momentum was already shifting as Lucina and Frederick pushed their way past Gregor, grateful for the relief, and began the attack on the forces inside the castle. The princess was no slouch: her rapier knocked aside those mercenaries who took after her with axes, and Frederick made productive use of his lance by outreaching and preempting those Lucina could not fell herself.

Stahl heard the clang of metal and the cracking of bones as he swept his lance over again and toppled another assailant. Suddenly, before the paladin could react, a man wielding an axe, too close to be brushed aside with his lance, leapt toward the knight. He yelped in fright, but was then equally shocked as the man halted in mid-air. A glimmer drew away from his chest and he sank, revealing a sheen of red armor behind him. "Sully!" her husband cheered.

"How'd I know I'd find you here?" she chuckled.

"Your leg," Stahl indicated, noticing it slightly twisted and wrapped with gauze.

"'Salright. I'll get it set and fixed proper once we take the castle back," she nodded confidently.

"Right behind you," he smiled, now able to empathize, "Oh, and Kjelle?"

Sully grinned and thumbed to her right, "Having fun."

Armor clanged with a thunderous noise as Kellam and the girl with the olive hair shoved effortlessly through the waves of troops in tandem.

"We need to hurry," Anna noted, using her staff once more. It was close to degrading, "We can't spend all our time on the small potatoes."

"Right," Lucina nodded, "We have to take down their commander. That should at least make the novices or noncommitals flee, which may be many among mercenaries."

"But where is their commander?" Frederick scanned the hordes of advancing soldiers, careful not to let himself become too distracted.

"He's up there," noted a voice plainly, "didn't'cha see him?"

"Leo?" Anna's jaw dropped.

"Hey! Mom!" he jumped forward, "I... I heard what happened, and I kinda thought... Well, I didn't wanna think about it, but..."

"It's okay, sweetie," she sympathized, embracing him, his salmon ensemble wrinkling in her grasp, "Momma's here now."

He composed himself, wiping his eyes, "Er, but now's not the time.

I was watching from the rafters: their leader's a blue-haired guy called 'Arc.' The 'Tenebrous Hero,' I heard a few call him. At any rate, he's a real monster, but he had a fight with this guy, a real slick swordsman called 'Cyrus...' Guy knocked him flat on his back no prob."

"So, what are you saying?" Lucina ascertained.

"We need someone fast on his feet and good with a blade to beat that sucker. And we'd best do it fast: he's wounded," the young man with the auburn hair provided.

"And that someone should be you?" the princess gleaned.

"Well, if you insist," he grinned.

Lucina rolled her eyes, "Just hurry."

"I'm going with you," Anna determined.

"Uh, I don't think you should, mom," he rubbed his neck.

"Well, that's too bad," she dismissed, "I'll be damned if I let some two-bit thug hurt my son. Let's go."

"Yes, ma'am," he bowed.

With every bit of agility he had, the young man skipped deftly between his opponents as the princess and her guardian knight cleared a path. A crop of ginger hair appeared to throw the last brigade out of their way, "You owe me big for this job, Bluebird!"

The young man had he first chance to size up the Tenebrous Hero, who held himself up mostly on one leg and growled gutturally and viciously. "Yikes, bad dog," quipped the assassin.

"You think you can talk to me like that?!" he snarled, "I'll turn you into a stain on my floor, boy!"

"Not likely," the young man with the auburn hair persisted, loosing a trail of arrows at the blue haired man.

He endured them without flinching, "I'll break you with one hand." The Tenebrous Hero lifted his axe and swung at the assassin.

"Not gonna happen!" called the young man's mother, blocking the attack, "Told you I should be here."

"You're both dead!" screamed the wounded warrior.

"Oh, shut it," dismissed the young man, firing another arrow. This one stuck Arc's already wounded side. He toppled and grimaced.

"Little insects, all'o ya...!" he gasped as the wound bled afresh. "You can't kill me!"

"Doubting it," Leo smiled.

"You don't get it, kid," he rose, to their surprise, "I'm just like every other faceless asshole in this army... I get thrown where the brass are too scared to fight for themselves. I fight until I'm dead, and no one gives a shit either way. You can't kill me off: I just keep comin' back 'till you're dead, and then I loot your corpse." He laughed morosely, "So you wanna tell me just what in the hell you're gonna do to the bastard who wins no matter what?"

"I'm gonna start with one and clear my way through the rest as they come," smirked the assassin, training his bow.

"Hah!" the blue-haired man scoffed, bull rushing the young man. In a heartbeat, the assassin dropped his bow and whipped out his blade. His mother stood astride him and they slashed in unison, backing out of the way of the leaping Tenebrous Hero as they cut at his head together.

He fell with an earth-shaking thud.

"Can't... die... Another fifty take my place. I'm within your ranks. I'm the enemy. I'm you. I... never die! Haha...!"

"Scratch one Tenebrous Hero," Leo twirled his blade in his hand and slid it back into its sheath.


	9. Reunion

The air was cold. But it was always cold on days like this, when the breeze from the ocean and the nearby rivers would sweep over onto land and flood the sky with clouds. It was the sort of cold that managed to actually be tiring based on the amount of heat the body needed to produce just to avoid shivering every moment. The boy with the purple hair pressed his thumb curiously to the icy window. His eyes widened as the frost melted. It was surprising, that it could simply disappear that way. He stared at the pane of glass another moment with wonder.

His parents were arguing. That much was obvious in the tone of their voices. It didn't take the boy's understanding what they were discussing to comprehend that it wasn't something pleasant. Every few seconds, another muffled shout would punch through his door. They had closed it to shield him from the noise, but, of course, that had done nothing.

"Like it or not, it's the way the world is headed. That's how it's gonna hafta be," sighed the boy's father.

"Absolutely not," his mother rejected. He could practically hear her eyes widening in shock and anger, "I don't care what that bastard Walhart wants, our land will always be our own."

"That kind of attitude is going to get us killed one day," the boy's father grunted critically, "Do you want to drag down the boys with you and your unlimited sovereignty?"

"Don't you dare bring the children into this!" she scolded.

"I will, because it matters!" the man retaliated, "What do you care for this land, anyway? You're Plegian through and through."

"Exactly why we need to keep Walhart away," her voice quivered a bit, "Have you seen what that monster does to Grimleal? And you think bending our knees in obsecration will keep him away from our sons?"

"No," the man replied more flatly, "Nothing's going to keep the Conqueror away from our family."

There was a hesitation, something the boy with the violet hair assumed was transmitted by countenance, "What are you talking about?"

"Excellus... he..." the father grasped.

Another moment of hesitation, "What? For gods' sakes, what?"

There was now a strain on his father's voice, as if he were lifting weights as he spoke, "Agents of the Conqueror... they were already here last week when you went shopping. They demanded to see him... 'the Grimleal boy with the talent for strategy.' They promised they would spare his life and ours if I gave him over."

"But Excellus..." the boy's mother was hanging on every word.

"Excellus... I don't know what drove him," the father sighed, "I like to think it was selflessness, but he had some mad look about his eyes, as if he'd just been offered the key to the world. He pushed me out of the way and claimed to be the boy for which they were searching. The agent took him without hesitation."

The groaning sound of a chair scraping on the hardwood floor was issued. The boy heard his mother sit and place her elbows, or perhaps her entire head on the table. "...eard fro'm'im?"

"What?" the boy's father didn't seem to move.

"Have you heard from him?!" she screeched.

"No," he paused, "but he's only been gone a few days. He promised to write within ten days, if possible. I'm sure we'll hear from him."

"That settles it," the sound of the chair scraping came again, followed by hurried footsteps, "I am getting my son out of this hellhole of a country, and you can sit here on your thumbs in the meantime while soldiers massacre your friends and neighbors if you like." The door to the boy's room swung open and he whipped his head around to face his mother. "Hello, my love," she called much more gently, a placid smile adorning her face, "Come, we're going to go on a wonderful little trip."

"You can't!" determined the boy's father, rising and following her, "He's my son, too, and I won't let you steal him away!"

"M-Mother, where would we go?" the boy with the violet hair mused softly.

"Back to mother's home, my dear, in Plegia," she ruffled his hair gently.

"But I've so many friends here," the boy frowned.

"I know," she nodded, "but you'll make new friends there, and mommy can introduce you to some of her old friends there, as well. It will be perfect. You'll have at least twice as many friends as before."

The boy felt tears drawing down his cheeks, though he wasn't quite sure why, "Mother... I don't think I want to go."

"I know, dear," she persisted, "but it'll be much better this way, you'll see."

"Damn you, woman!" his father called, "Can't you hear? The boy says he doesn't want to leave, so let him be!"

"I will _not_ let him die for your passiveness!" she retaliated.

"You think you can win him over with your honeyed looks!" the man growled, "I've stayed my tongue long enough, you succubus! Son, your mother doesn't care a wit for you!"

The boy's eyes sank. That couldn't be true, could it?

"Petty lies, just to make the boy upset?" the woman roared, "You should be ashamed of yourself. Your father's the one who doesn't give a damn about you or I."

"Mother, father, please don't fight..." the boy cried impotently between their cutting stares.

"Look here," his mother kneeled next to him and offered her hand, "Your mother treats you the way you ought to be treated. She doesn't go about telling you to hide your gift, does she?" The boy looked down to his own pale hand. She was referring to the patterns tattooed onto him since birth. They were a sign of his power, she had said.

"He _ought_ to be treated like a normal boy," his father mocked, "that's what he really wants, not to be ousted for some Plegian blood curse."

A noise ripped the front door open. Both of his parents' eyes became wide as dinner plates and about as pale. A curious look came across the face of the boy's mother, as well as a flat concern upon his father's.

The woman leaned in toward her son, so that he could see the seemingly endless darkness in her pupils as they reflected his image. "My son, no matter what befalls you, remember that you have a right to exist. No one can deny you but yourself. Be strong, and never capitulate to the demands of others."

"Now listen," his father interjected, not rudely, but putting aside his mother's words, "Any son of mine will know that you have a right to be, but not to overreach. Live a life that doesn't impede upon that of others. Fight for yourself only when absolutely necessary. You are but one man, and your desires don't outweigh all of existence."

The boy stared blankly at his parents. They seemed to know what was going on, but he remained woefully in the dark. The boy opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. They turned their heads in horror, expecting to hear a rush, a wave of clamor storm into their home, but no. There was only a single set of slow, soft, repetetive advancing footsteps. Boots hit the ground and tapped like a lethargic applause. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

And, all at once, they stopped.

The image began to fade. What followed was a series of sounds belonging more clearly in a slaughterhouse, a prison... anywhere that was not before the eyes of this little boy. But, alas, he watched, mouth agape, face pale, and eyes bulging out of his skull as his parents kicked and screamed, the blood pouring from them in every direction. The crimson liquid flew everywhere about the house, splattering onto walls, redecorating chairs and washing in sickly warmth onto the face of the terrified little boy, made wholly deaf by the sight.

He fell to the floor, unable to utter so much as a sound to signal the absolute terror and pain he felt. The floor was cold and hard.

As a shadow loomed over the purple-haired boy, he let his body slip into numbness, assured that this would be his final breath.

One word accompanied him into the blackness of certain death: "No."

The eyes parted and he was somewhere different altogether. How could this be? When had he gotten here? What had he been doing?

"H-Hey," a girl with black hair waved at him, "You holding up all right? You look like hell."

* * *

Hell. He was in it, all right. The young man coughed and struggled a bit with the blankets on his bed. A small creak came from the corner of the room. He didn't even need to open his eyes, "Dahlia?"

The woman with rose-colored hair paused a moment and glanced at the sleeping figure, unaware if she should reveal herself, but he knew, anyway, "Good morning, milord."

"Don't call me that," he insisted, cracking one eye open, then the other.

"Of course," she apologized.

The young man pushed himself off of the mattress and coughed a few more times into his palm. He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He wiped a hand across his face and raised his eyebrows in an effort to further open his tired eyes and stretched his back. He leaned over and stared at the young woman in the corner of his room silently.

"Would milord-er, that is, would _you_ care for a cup of tea to begin the morning? Uh, sir?" she lifted her head.

"No," he declined, "No, that won't be necessary." The man with the amethyst hair stood and stretched his arms, letting the loose fabric of his pajamas slip down the length of them to his elbows. "Dahlia, allow me some time to dress myself properly."

"Of course," she bowed, getting up, "I apologize for my... indiscretions."

"I recognize your intention," he shrugged her off plainly, "And Dahlia?"

"Sir?" she turned in place.

"What are we going to do?" he looked back. This was a test.

"You've never told me your entire plan, sir," she muttered before putting her hands up, "which, of course, I understand."

He shook his head as the rose-haired woman bowed hers. She had failed. "We," he declared with grandiosity, "are going to end the suffering and change the world." Resolute, he turned with a snap and gathered his clothing, "Tell the harbormasters. Our time is at hand." She nodded gravely. A fire smoldered in the young man's eyes, burning the very ocean before him. It was cold.

* * *

A defeated sigh projected from the hallway. Leo stared forlornly as his mother emerged from within the castle's corridor.

"Nothing in there, either, huh?" guessed a sympathetic Stahl.

"No," she exhaled... "It doesn't look good, does it, Stahl?"

"Don't get to thinking like that," the viridian knight insisted, "You know what Robin's done in the past. If there were one man I suspected to be capable of living through anything, I'd stake my own life on Robin."

"I appreciate it, Stahl, but you haven't been around," she tried to wipe away some of the moisture that was pooling above her cheeks as they flushed, "Robin... he's not what he used to be."

"Ya mean the ol' man's cough hasn't gotten much better, eh?" her son suggested.

"No, it's gotten worse," she muttered morosely, looking to her feet.

"Any sign of them?" they were distracted by the princess's voice.

"Gregor is finding neither carapace nor cuticle of them," the sellsword sighed.

"That's 'hide nor hair,' dear," the pegasus knight corrected, "And no, we haven't seen any sign of Lissa, Donnel, Owain, or Robin."

"Impossible," Lucina clenched her fist, "Could it be that we're too late?"

"Nonsense! Heroism is never too late!" came a commotion from outside the gates. Kjelle and Lucina nodded at one another, prompting Kjelle and her mother to open the door. As per their expectations, the plucky pegasus knight sprang into the court with panache, "Ta-da! Hee hee... nailed it!"

"Cynthia," called Frederick in nigh-disbelief.

"Heya, daddy," she smiled brightly, "Did I worry you? Sorry, my bad."

The knight's jaw clenched, "I'm just... pleased to see you unharmed."

"Cynthia, while I hate to break up your quite timely reunion, what is it that brings you here?" Lucina demanded.

"Oh, right!" she smiled as she produced a piece of parchment from her saddlebag, "I come bearing news from Lissa!" Eyes around the room brightened and a small murmur filled the air. "My mom met them on the way back from Regna Ferox," the pegasus knight elaborated.

"Them?" Lucina repeated, "And what was your mother doing in Ferox?"

"Shh..." she insisted dramatically, "All will be revealed: you see, my mother was supposed to be accompanying Inigo on his way back... but... she kinda fell asleep on her mount on the way up and... Well, she missed the actual date of the job by about forty-eight hours... But, the point is I was running drills with the other pegasus knights at the academy when I saw Owain running along with Yarne, really purposefully. I decided to follow them, and that was when I learned about Ylisstol being overrun. I went to my mom first to tell her about it, and when we met up, we found Lissa, Donnel, Owain, and Yarne accompanied by Steven, headed across the Feroxi border!"

The entire population of the castle was riveted with the information, "Well don't keep us in suspense, Wobbles," the ginger-haired thief pulled a lollipop out of his mouth, "What's Princess's little cadre up to?"

"Uh, lemme see..." she stared at the paper and prepared to read, clearing her throat:

"Dear Chrom... or Lucina... or whoever it is that happens to be receiving this message,

First and foremost, let me tell you that I'm doing fine! Donny and I were rescued by our brave and stalwart son. How adorable is that? Anyway, Owain was down here with Yarne, and I don't know where Panne is, so I get the sense that Lon'qu's making a cry for help. Steven found us after we escaped from the castle and has been leading us to Regna Ferox to seek asylum until we can coordinate a plan to combat the mercenaries who seized Ylisstol. It's been a tiring march, but we're glad to be away from the murderous thugs at this point and to have the cold be our only remaining adversary. With luck we'll only be about a day's march from the West-Khan's Palace by the time this letter reaches you. In the meantime, Sumia's going to fly down and switch places with Cynthia once she's sure that this message has reached... well, someone.

Hugs and kisses!

Lissa

(P.S.: If you happen to find this letter and don't know what it's about, please give it to the nearest Ylissean authority. They'll know who it needs to go to.)"

Lucina remarked upon the thought on the minds of all her companions, "What a relief... So Aunt Lissa is all right?"

"Yep!" the pegasus knight was pleased with herself.

Anna twiddled her fingers idly before muttering, "Did... did you see Robin anywhere?"

Fortunately, Cynthia managed to hear her, and frowned sympathetically, "Um... no. Sorry. I haven't seen Robin, or Inigo, for that matter."

"And my mother and father are still absent," the princess sighed weightily, "My deepest condolences, Lady Anna, but I swear we'll do everything in our power to find him." A smile tugged at the corner of Anna's lips as she let a small laugh escape. "Is something funny?" the sapphire-haired girl wondered earnestly.

"You just... reminded me of your father a bit, that's all," the redhead mused.

"Why don't I take you to bed, mom? You're not lookin' so hot," her son held her arms.

"Leo," she breathed, "Thank you, but I'd prefer a little time to myself, if that's okay."

He frowned at her, knitting his brow, "If that's whacha want, I ain't gonna say 'no,' but... Just, come to me if you've got a problem, you know?"

She smiled briefly again, "Yes, I know." The merchant turned and vanished into the castle corridors again.

"I should extend my thanks for helping to return control of the castle to Ylisse," Lucina offered, sidling up to the side of the young assassin. It was the first time she had had a proper look at the young man: he was of mostly average height, perhaps no more than an inch taller than herself, and he had a sort of square-looking jaw that seemed to fit his pale but sun-twinged complexion. Scars dotted the visible parts of his arms and legs, but didn't appear to be anything severe. Mostly, he was wrapped in the black vestments typical of an assassin, complete with vambraces and an innumerable amount of straps and pockets to hold knives, as well as what appeared to be the odd vial of poison. He wore a curious emblem on the center strap that held his dark leather pauldrons on, catching Lucina's curiosity for a moment as her eyes trailed up, finding a salmon-colored cloak trailing down his back, worn more like an ornamental cape, clinging to the back but seemingly forgotten. As her view continued upwards, she looked again to his face to note his strangely sharp sandy-brown eyes and clean-cut, cropped auburn hair. That was a cut that belonged in a military capacity; she'd know it anywhere.

"Ah, no big deal," the assassin dismissed casually, "I'd'a done the same thing for anyone. That Arc fella was just one big joke waiting for a punchline."

That made her smile, "Still, I'm glad to have you on our side, for the record."

He nodded more enigmatically, "That's all well and good, princess, but don't get to thinkin' you're invincible. Tides change. One day it might be your neck I'm comin'after."

Lucina's eyes widened, "Well... I suppose I can be glad that day isn't today, right?"

He laughed, "Right."

"So you're Robin's other boy," a more gruff voice sounded, interrupting them.

"Aye, what can I do for you?" he looked up to the redheaded cavalier who was now leering down at him.

"Nothing much, just wondering if you're as big a stick-in-the-mud as your big brother," she scratched the back of her neck.

"Nah," he waved his hand, "A life like Steve's'd be enough to kill me. I'm like a shark, you know, gotta keep moving to keep the heart beating."

"So I see," she reported, now also taking the time to look over his outfit, "I think I've seen that emblem before. Who's it belong to?"

"Can't say," he touted teasingly, waving his finger.

"Is your mom all right, kid?" she changed the subject.

"Yeah," he looked back to the corridor, "she has her rough patches... She'n dad love each other like a turtle loves its shell, so it's easy to see why one of 'em feels lost without the other. I'll stick by her, though, and with the news that Steve's doing okay, too, I think she'll manage. Gotta say, though, even I kinda want to know where it is the old man's gone to."

"Well, that's the thing," Sully's eyes flashed, "see, I was with your dad and your baby sister, Kjelle and I both were, when those dastards stormed the castle. We had to take shelter, but I seem to recall your dad and Morgan making plans to go to Valm, to scare these jokers into going back home."

"Ha, that sounds like one o' the old man's plans, all right," his son chuckled, "But both he and Morgan were alive?"

"When last I saw him," the crimson knight took care not to sound too optimistic.

"Well, I think I might go relay that info to my mother. I'm thinkin' she'll find it... whatsa word? 'Invigoratin,''" he guessed.

* * *

The young man gestured toward his guardsman in the affirmative with a bright smile, facing the woman, rather than his subordinate. "I'll see that they're provided extra blankets, milord," his stalwart, Stewart, replied for him.

"Oh, gods bless you, sire," she lauded, tears pooling in her eyes.

The young man's eyes glowed, as to express a mutual sympathy, deflecting the gratitude. "Milord gives his regards, and assures you that he would take similar action for any such request," Stewart nodded.

"The children will be ever so pleased. I can't begin to express my gratitude, milord," she shook her head and wrung her hands feverishly, smiling broadly all the while.

The young man upon the throne shook his head with a smile. "Milord only asks that you provide the children with the love and care they so desperately require," Stewart announced.

"Of course," she bowed humbly.

Three sets of footsteps were heard halting promptly at the door. A familiar voice called out to the young man, "Vlasis, a word?"

He looked down to the woman before him and raised his eyebrows toward his subordinate. Stewart cleared his throat, "Now, my lady, if you'd be so kind, it seems milord is being called upon by an old acquaintance of his. I would ask that you depart at this time."

"Ah, but of course," she hurried out, chiding herself for taking too much of her khan's time.

"So," the man strode forward in the inky cloak he was always wearing, careful to hide his face, as per the usual, "You seem to be doing well for yourself, my boy." The man looked to Stewart, who was suspiciously guarding the entrance, "Long live Khan Vlasis."

"Long live Khan Vlasis," the guardsman recited tenuously, still leering at the cloaked man.

The young man sitting on the throne was still wearing a pleased smile, his snow-white hair glittering in the light of the afternoon, already reflected from the fields of snow that blanketed the land outside his window. He sat properly in his throne, his royal robes wrapped carelessly around him as he didn't appear to mind the cold. His smile subsided only in the slightest as he nodded affirmatively to the cloaked man.

"What was that, just now?" wondered the man beneath the cloak.

"Milord was granting a request to grant a local orphanage a stockpile of additional blankets," Stewart reported. He looked imposing as he stood, the garnet armor gleaming as it was supported by his naturally muscualr shoulders. His blond, wavy hair gave him an air of complacency and passivity that was shortly discouraged by his jagged face and dark eyes.

"I see," the cloaked man nodded to himself, "What a fine ruler you've become, so kind to your subjects. It's no wonder they adore you."

The young man nodded toward his acquaintance, bowing his head and setting aflutter his snowy locks. "Milord credits you for his ability to give the people what they desire," Stewart recognized.

"Please," the man smirked, his narrow eyes gleaming beneath his hood, "Don't bother crediting me. I'm an ugly old wizard. The people want to believe it is their shining paragon of virtue, their guardian angel, who gives them hope for the future."

The man on the throne nodded, "Ahura, hang gou."

"Now, don't strain yourself, my boy," the man beneath the cloak smiled, "Let us discuss the future of Regna Ferox a moment, once you are named Khan Regnant."

* * *

The man sat down gently upon the orangish stone beneath him and whistled softly. He adjusted his posture as a flapping trailed its way to him. He smiled delicately, holding out his finger as the bluebird alighted it. "Good morrow, Rafiel," he called to it. It chirped loudly in reply. "Have you been keeping them in order?" The bird chirped proudly. "That's good to hear," the man smiled, nodding his head slowly. At once, the bird chirped a few times in rapid succession, suggesting panic. "And what did Naesala see?" he wondered. The bird flapped its wings and readjusted itself on the man's finger, cleaning its wing with its beak before chirping again, "That's interesting. Did they look like nice people?" Rafiel stared the large man in the face, not saying anything. "Very well, tell Tibarn he's to keep an eye on them," the man accepted with a sigh. The bird chirped loudly again before hopping off the massive finger and taking back to the skies. "And tell your brother to behave himself," the mountain of a man called to the bird as it flew away.

"Milord Argent, there's been speculation-"

"I know," the man declared simply, rising tiredly from his seat.


	10. The Best of You

The leaves rustled softly over the caress of the wind. Morgan pulled her shirt tighter against herself. Light shimmered gold and filtered through the blanket of bright green leaves that served as the forest's canopy.

"It's so pretty around here," the girl in the baby blue cloak remarked, twirling in stride. She grinned happily.

Morgan glanced over at her older sister. They had seen each other on the road on only the most spurious of occasions, and she looked much different then when last Morgan saw her. They were nearly the same height, in fact, Morgan was pleased to believe that she actually exceeded her sister's height by about an inch. She still wore her naturally curly, chestnut-colored hair in that silly style, most of it bunched up on her head or hanging past her shoulders, save for those two bangs that hung by her ears. Inevitably, one would always droop over her face in a moment of carelessness, but she had kept it that way since they had been no older than ten. When she was younger, Morgan had adored the little argyle pattern that was on Sylvia's favorite undershirt, but now she found it tacky, which, of course, only encouraged her older sister to wear it more often. Then there was the cloak, baby blue or periwinkle, Morgan could never decide, the same color as the cloth she had been swaddled in as a babe, or so Sylvia had told her. Steven had refused to ever confirm or deny the notion. Still, Morgan couldn't argue that it complimented her sister, as well as her black trousers and boots, meant to be ignored so the audience could focus on the brighter parts, as the young performer had once explained. If there was one thing the redhead was jealous of about her sister, however, it was her eyes: They shimmered an ocean-blue, and made Sylvia's smiles radiant and her tears moving. She had a show-woman's face, that much was certain, and her fair complexion didn't hurt the matter.

"Uh, help you with something, Morgie?" her sister chuckled, now staring back.

"It's just been a while," Morgan covered, "I think I'm taller than you now."

"Yeah, right, Squirt," she moved to tousle Morgan's hair, but the redhead sidestepped her.

"Don't even think about it," she warned.

"If it wasn't so long, you wouldn't have to worry," her sister shrugged.

"I don't, ordinarily," Morgan sighed, "but I just had it fixed up a little."

"When did you do that?" Robin coughed, sidling up between them.

"Inigo's picked up a few other talents over the years," his youngest daughter declared simply.

"I only solicit my services to the most discerning of customers, however," the prince made his presence known, grabbing his wife's shoulder.

"Right," the older man sneered, "the less I hear about your husband's 'talents,' the better." Morgan groaned.

"I forgot I never gave you guys a proper wedding gift," the girl with the blue cloak realized, finger to her chin, "How's about I make a flock of doves appear?"

"Depends: will they be doves, or rabid crows, like last time?" her sister rolled her eyes.

"Easy mistake," Sylvia waved her hand, "I was having an 'off' day, is all. Sheesh, all it takes is one slip with you."

"I think I've given you plenty of chances," the redhead argued.

Sylvia prepared to respond when she felt a palm catch her chest and hold her back. "Did anyone else see that?" their father asked.

"Yes, a bird," Inigo blocked the sun from his eyes, "Your doing, Sylvia?"

"No way, I don't even have the feathers for that spell yet," she denied.

"That sounds more like dark magic, Sylvie," Morgan realized.

"Well, a girl's gotta broaden her horizons sometime, right? I mean-"

"Girls," Robin declared over them, "focus, please. Are we sure that was a bird?"

"I'm here, too, you know," the prince protested.

"I don't retract my statement," he breathed, "Now, did anyone else see this bird?"

"Yeah," Morgan nodded, "It looked like a big hawk."

"Hmm..." a smirk appeared on their father's lips, "Apex predators out of the gate, eh? A respectful opponent, if nothing else."

"Now what are you mumbling to yourself about, daddy?" Sylvia grinned at him.

"Nothing," he sighed, "how far is this town you talked about?"

"Oh, Gestalt is only another few miles. Shouldn't take more than an hour," she predicted, scanning the horizon.

"We'll need to ascertain the names of local leadership once we get there, assuming you haven't led us on a wild goose chase, Sylvia," he glanced down at his daughter, projecting a corporate tone.

"Oh ye of little faith," she giggled, "You'll see, daddy, I just don't like to show off my hand."

A hawk and a crow landed on opposite branches of one another in the canopy of trees high above and preened their feathers before squawking at each other.

In high contrast to the stand-offish nature of the Valmese port town, the townsfolk of Gestalt were decidedly more receptive to their visitors. No sooner had the small group entered the town and extended a greeting to a farmer working a few miles out of town than were they offered an opportunity to stay in the town's in and petitioned for a meal at a bistro that boasted itself the best in all of Lieben. Robin graciously accepted both offers, and with a short walk, the group were all seated in the selfsame bistro.

Robin picked up a glass of water and drank from it greedily, more than a little parched from the journey, "So... you say this dynasty is called 'Lieben,' Sylvia?"

"That's right. You traveled with Duke Virion of Rosanne, didn't you? Lieben is Rosanne's westerly neighbor," the girl reported, impatiently awaiting some tea she had requested. She tapped her fingers on the table idly, "They used to go to war constantly, but the people have grown out of it. They're more like friendly rivals now."

"Herr Gentleman's order," a large man grunted as he sat a plate down in front of Robin, adorning it with a steaming hunk of meat.

"My thanks," Robin nodded at him, "Mind if I ask you a question?"

"By all means," the man bowed.

"This dynasty, Lieben," the former tactician began, "Who runs it? Who is your lord?"

"Lord?" the man screwed his face up, then laughed, "Ah, you're talking about General Argent. He's the highest-up in Lieben, but he's nobody's 'lord.' Fellow keeps to himself, and his people are better for it, not like the nosy nobles of other nations."

"And has General Argent reigned for a long time?" Robin pressed.

"Oh, yeah," the man folded his arms and nodded, "Every man and woman in Lieben can trace their history back at least five generations, but that man... His family history is as long as the world itself. It's been said he's a descendant of Camus the Sable himself."

"Camus the Sable?" Morgan repeated, slurping up a spoonful of soup.

"He was a knight of unparalleled valor and strength who fought against the Hero-King at one time," Inigo recited, recalling his required historical lessons, "but how he would have ever ended up in Valm is beyond me."

"It's just a legend," the man shrugged, "I'm not saying it's true. General Argent sure fights like an ox, though, and that's why Lieben's been at peace so long."

"That's right," Robin declared, finishing another swig of water, "I remember hearing about the problems with Lieben's stability during the Valmese campaign."

"Yup," their server grunted, "Used to be tough around here, all of our 'leaders' were just opportunists, in it for the money and recognition, but with no real capacity for leadership. It all changed when Argent took over, during the fight to kick out Walhart, though."

"Hey, that's good news, isn't it?" Sylvia suggested, "If this guy was against Walhart, maybe he'll be a bit more receptive to you."

"Maybe, but I wouldn't be too sure," Robin cautioned, taking a bite of his food, "Best-case scenario is that I get to speak to him, and I find out where these soldiers that attacked Ylisse are coming from."

"He sounds like an okay guy," Morgan shrugged in acquiescence.

"Any idea how we could go about speaking to General Argent?" Robin asked the large man serving them.

He tilted his head, "Well, the castle town is about five hours' march to the northwest of here, but I can't guarantee you'll get to see him."

"That will do, thank you," Robin saw him off.

"Robin," Inigo got his attention, "Do you think we should speak to Virion while we're around? We might need some serious aid to take down our adversaries."

Robin nodded, "A fair point, but we still don't know where our adversaries are, and I'd like to get a better idea on that point before we start considering requisite force. I don't want to lose our opportunity to speak to this General Argent."

"But what if-" Inigo's thought was interrupted as a thunderous noise shook the building. Robin stood gingerly and hurried out of the door, accompanied shortly by his daughters and son-in-law to discover its source.

"Ah-ha! Robin, it is most pleasant to see you again! I had heard you were in the neighborhood!" a gallant shock of steel-blue hair leapt down from the wings of a menacing black wyvern.

* * *

He rubbed his hands over his cheeks. They felt coarse and chapped. Of course, he had been crying. He rubbed his eyes as his head hung low.

The people moved past him in silence, milling around and doing their best to aver their eyes. It was what they always did. So long as they pretended he didn't exist, they could go about their normal lives without any trace of guilt. He had moved into the alleys, to avoid having to see them, too. They disgusted him.

His stomach growled. He tried to fight the pain, but he was beyond the point of ignoring the sensation. Muscles in his chest tightened as his stomach ached again. It had been three days since he had eaten last, and he could already feel himself beginning to waste away on the cold street. It hurt to move.

The same thoughts buzzed around constantly in his mind: I feel sick. I want to go home. I'm tired. I miss my family. They were all the same impossibilities he had visited and revisited every moment since landing on the streets. He had seen these feelings in the eyes of street orphans while accompanying his parents through town often enough, but had never felt the full weight of their implication until this particular day, where they clouded his mind like an impenetrable smog that suffocated him and held him down in his state of helplessness, gasping for air.

There was a small sound of tapping on the street. The boy picked his head up: a half-eaten apple had fallen to the ground before him. He leered to each side to see if the gift had been some sort of trap, then gently held his hand out. He screeched and jumped back as a rat suddenly leapt onto the morsel and began gnawing at it. "G-Go away," he told it in a weak voice, waving his hand vaguely over the food. The rat ignored him. "I... I want that," he informed the rodent in the same tone, reaching for the apple again. The creature squeaked at him viciously, smelling his hand. A few of the rodent's kin emerged from the street and began to take their turn as well, causing the boy to be jolted back again in frustration. He sat and frowned as the small grey beasts nibbled away his only source of nutrition. "Leave, all of you," he commanded, swiping his arm over them. The crowd of rats glanced up at the threat and went back to chewing. "I said... go away!" the boy summoned his courage and thrust out his hand, seizing the fruit.

A rat clung to the item and bit his finger as he pulled it up. "Ow!" the boy shook his hand, trying to fling the creature off, but still it held. "Go!" he insisted, grabbing the rodent and throwing it away. The others began to scale the boy's collapsed form, trailing up his arm to the apple again. "Get off!" he told them, shaking his arm wildly. He pushed himself up to distance himself from the ravenous beasts and took a bite of the fruit, what little of it remained, as they swarmed at his feet. His brow knit in anger. "Go away!" he shouted with more conviction, stomping his foot blindly. A panicked shriek arose from the crowd of rodents, paired with a crunching sound, and the small horde scattered. The boy glanced down to see what had been the source of the disturbance. Beneath his foot, there lay the crumpled cadaver of one of the rats, a bone sticking improperly out of its abdomen, and a tiny puddle of red blood spilling out. One of its eyes was shut and the other was bulging out of the side of its head. Some of its grimy fur was matted to the ground, and some to the boy's boot. Unable to restrain himself, the boy vomitted at the sight and dropped the apple, falling to the ground again and sobbing into his open palms. "I'm sorry..." he pleaded to the rat, "I didn't mean to, really, I just... I wanted the apple, and you wouldn't go away..." He wiped his mouth clean and averted his eyes, too fatigued to move again.

"Hey, kid," the boy picked his head up to the sound of a voice. A girl with messy black hair that seemed to have been haphazardly cut short of her shoulders and a face caked with dirt kneeled before him, "Are you okay?"

"I'm hungry," he moaned weakly, closing his eyes.

"Everybody on the streets is," she nodded, sidling a bit closer. She waited for him to continue, but he only heaved quietly, his head bobbing as he lamented his situation. The girl sighed, offering a palmful of tiny sapphire spheres, "Here, there's a nice lady who gives me some blueberries every other day."

The boy only leered up at her in reply.

"Come on," she encouraged, "I've got no reason to hurt you. Just take them before I change my mind."

With that, the boy ignored his reason's objection and took the berries, scarfing them down hungrily. He wiped his mouth of the juices and looked back up to his visitor, "Thank you."

"Sure, kid," she mused, sitting down. "So, your parents abandon you too?"

He scowled, "No! They didn't abandon me! They were taken!"

"That's what they all say," she breathed, "trust me, kid, as much as you want to believe it, if you're out here, your parents weren't exactly kicking and screaming about leaving you."

He pushed himself up to stand, "I watched them! The soldiers...!" The boy sank back to his knees, forced to recall the moment. He instinctually touched the spot on his cheek where the blood had splashed. "The soldiers..." he repeated uselessly in a more sober voice.

"Oh, so you're one of those," the girl nodded with comprehension, "that's funny, they don't usually leave any of them alive."

"One of what?" the purple-haired boy demanded.

"I dunno," she shrugged, "the creepy people with the weird clothes that the Conqueror has been slaughtering."

"I'm not creepy," the boy defended, "My clothes aren't weird."

"Whatever you say," she dismissed, "Hey, you want some more food?" The boy nodded hastily. She elaborated, "We can get a whole store of oranges at this one market if we're really careful." It didn't take much convincing; the boy nodded again and the girl took him by the wrist down a few alleyways and across a few gray streets until they found the warm pinkish stone and colored tapestry roofs that meant they had reached a marketplace. The boy lifted his head abd tasted the air. "Now," the girl announced, "we just have to sneak over there when the merchant leaves and we'll have it all to ourselves." She glanced around the area before ordering, "Go hide over there."

The boy crouched behind a stack of crates and swatted away a group of flies as he got into position as instructed. The girl clambered quietly past him underneath a tarp and began to inch toward the stall on her stomach. As she drew closer, the boy noticed the merchant scratch his neck and yawn, then step out of the way, keeping his eye on the stall until he had rounded a corner that obscured his line of sight.

"Too easy," the girl chuckled in the boy's direction as she licked her lips.

The boy wanted to answer, but suddenly felt a chill as his thoughts became hazy. His stomach tightened, as his vision clouded acutely, the cleared to show the girl reaching out from her spot to grab the sides of the basket that contained the succulent prize. No sooner did she place her small palms on the wood, however, than did a voice cry out, "Hey, you!" The girl leapt as a guard marched toward her. She tried to scramble out of the way, but was caught by her dirtied foot and worn-out boot. "Little rat," spat the armored man who had caught her, "Why don't I go see what the other guards will make of you, eh?" The girl kicked and screamed as she was dragged away by her tousled black hair. The boy wanted to cry for a moment, but then his vision clouded again, and, at once, the girl was a few paces away from the stall, where she had been moments before.

The purple-haired boy had a plethora of questions, but his first reaction was to whisper a shout to his new companion: "Don't!"

She froze and looked up, then frowned at him, "What? I'm not going to miss this chance just because you're having second thoughts!"

The boy was still dumbfounded as he watched the same guard he had seen a moment ago enter the area. He gestured toward the man with his thumb. The girl noticed and ducked her head down.

"Damn," the man grunted as his armor shifted, "I thought one might be that stupid. We'll get 'em next time." He disappeared as quickly as he had emerged and was replaced by the returning merchant, whom the girl scrambled to avoid once more. When they were rejoined, they left the marketplace.

"That was too close," the girl breathed, "How did you know he was coming?"

"I don't know," the boy murmured, "I just saw him there... and you... and..."

She furrowed her brow at him, then shrugged, "Well, however you did it, I'm sure glad you were there. How do you feel about coming with me?"

"With... you?" the boy stared absently.

"Yeah. We can go places together, and I'll keep you safe and fed, so long as you keep... er, doing whatever you did back there," she elaborated. The boy wasn't sure it he could replicate the action, but he supposed this chance was one-time-only and shook the girl's small hand when she offered it. He was pleasantly surprised to note that it felt soft.

* * *

"Sire?" he was awakened. The watery blue eyes stared back at him. He was all at once warm and drenched in his own sweat.

"Another fever?" he realized by the state of his dress. She had taken him back to bed and stripped off his shirt.

"A particularly bad one, sir," she reported, her eyes expressing the concern that her voice circumlocuted.

"You were worried?" he said with a half-dose of sarcasm.

"No, sir," she lied, "I know you can hold your own with this ailment. I only believed you would prefer immediate company upon your awakening. I meant no disrespect."

"Nor did I infer any," he eased her fears, sitting up more properly, "Your dedication to me is venerable, Dahlia."

"No, sir," the rose-haired woman refused, "I only came to your aid as any proper subservient would her own superior."

"Dahlia," he held his hand up and raised his voice, then softened it, "thank you. Will you get me a glass of water and a new shirt?"

"Right away," she nodded.

"And get someone to change out these linens for tonight. They're filthy," the man noted with additional distaste.

"Sir," she bowed again.

"Lord Nihilus, sir," a man wandered into the room, "I've grave news."

A flickering ember growled in the eyes of the man with the amethyst hair, "What is it?"

"Lord Arc lies dead. Ylisstol is back in Ylissean hands," replied the messenger.

"I see," he breathed disaffectedly, "Perhaps this is punishment for his recklessness, or for mine. In any case, thank you, lad, but has Lady Dahlia informed you of the rules of this chamber?"

"Sir?" he cocked an eyebrow.

"Lord Nihilus does not permit anyone other than myself or Lord Cyrus to seek him out in this bedchamber," Dahlia recounted coldly, "Forgive me for failing to uphold the responsibilities inherent within this privilege, sir."

"I'll find a suitable penalty," the man grunted, "for now, please see to it sensitive information not unnecessarily distributed to the public."

"Yes sir," she acknowledged. The messenger did not have time to gasp as the cold sting of metal pierced his lung.

* * *

"Brr…" the princess shuddered, shriveling into her shawl, "I hate the cold."

"Only a bit further now, milady," the silver-haired man smiled genially.

"I shall furnish whichever of mine noble vestments you would desire, o mother," Owain nodded to her.

"Thanks, Owain, but I'll be fine. Let's just hurry inside," she encouraged.

"Yarne? Ya been awful quiet since we got out here," her husband noted, glancing at the taguel.

"What?" he jumped, "Uh… sorry, I guess my mind was on other stuff."

"Aren't you at least pleased to be rejoining your mother and father?" Steven wondered, pulling his cloak more tightly as the wind whipped up.

"O-Of course," he shivered, "I just don't feel so good, is all." The silver-haired man shrugged and turned his eyes back to the road ahead. It was only a few more minutes of walking through the crunching, deafening blanket of snow before the party eventually reached the gates of the East-Khan's palace. Steven began to push the door open and was joined quickly by Owain, who flexed boldly as he stepped forward.

"Skrimir's Might!" he declared as he gave the door a shove. It budged only slightly forward. Steven rolled his eyes and continued opening the large stone edifice until the path was clear. The guests sidled up in to meet their hosts.

"Lissa, Donnel," Khan Lon'qu acknowledged first, "It's been too long. Nice to see the both of you again."

"Likewise, Lon'qu," Lissa smiled.

"Have you forgotten the visage of the most formidable warrior to have ever graced these halls?" Owain pushed himself ahead of the group.

"I would never forget Khan Basilio," the west-khan glanced down his nose at the boy, "But there is one here whose name eludes my recollection."

Steven nodded with a clinical smile and unbuttoned his cloak to let his chest breathe, "Indeed, that's no surprise, Sir West-Khan."

"Lon'qu, please," the khan held his hand up, "I haven't earned the title of khan yet, and I do not care for excess formality."

"As you wish, Sir Lon'qu," the young man nodded. Lon'qu sighed. "Likely my face is unfamiliar to you because the last time you bore witness to it was a bit shy of twenty years ago, when this face still belonged to a bright-eyed little boy."

His eyes widened as he was reminded, "Ah, yes, the silver-haired boy… Robin and Anna's oldest, correct?"

He nodded and produced the same clinical smile, "I am called Steven, sire, and your deduction is correct."

The khan stroked his chin lazily before leaning on his shoulder, "Your father… what's become of him? I hear these are tumultuous times for Ylisse."

"Quite," the young man nodded with more than a hint of irony, "On the issue of my father's location, however, I can provide no information that you would find useful. I do apologize."

"Hey, weren't you even surprised we came, Lon'qu?" Lissa noted with her finger to her chin.

"News travels fast these days," he shrugged, "that, and…"

"I travel even faster," coughed the mature, silken voice of a certain taguel.

"I did what you asked, mom," Yarne nodded to her.

"So I see," she reported, "Well done, my son. You may retire, if that is your wish."

"And you must be Lady Panne, Last Mother of the Taguel," reported Steven as he scanned her face.

"You smell of your father's musty airs, man-spawn," she grunted at him, "Like my mate, I do not care for these titles the humans place upon me."

"Still, I am humbled by your presence, Lady Panne. All who fought alongside my father have my sincerest respect," he bowed.

"I assume you Ylisseans are not present for some sort of ball," the taguel supposed.

"Correct," Steven stroked a lock of hair out of his face.

"We need a place to stay; Ylisstol was overrun," Lissa finished.

Lon'qu's eyes tensed, "Truly? Things are worse than I had feared. Of course, you are welcome to remain in the palace until these circumstances can be properly dealt with."

"Much obliged, Lon'qu!" Donnel cheered.

"My attendant can show you to some spare rooms," the khan offered with a sweep of his arms, summoning a gruff-looking man. The group began to filter out of the throne room, with the exception of Steven, who lingered until they were all out of earshot.

"Do you desire something further?" the khan wondered.

"It's troubling," the young man muttered more to himself after a moment, his chin resting on his fist, "I've heard some news about the new east-khan."

"All of it good, I'm sure," grunted the khan regnant.

"That's just it," Steven still appeared to be talking to himself, "It's a bit... too good. Call me skeptical, but a boy of that age making so efficacious and altruistic in such a barbarous-if you'll excuse the term-land such as Regna Ferox makes me more than a trifle suspicious."

Lon'qu bowed his head, "I cannot disagree... I have had similar considerations, but I can do precious little. Any attempt at espionage would likely be taken as treason."

Steven stroked his chin until a small grin tugged at the corners of his mouth and his eyes warmed, "But say a misguided Ylissean insurgent was trying to gather information..."

Lon'qu shook his head, "Inadvisable. The east has stepped up guard against these sorts of things. Besides, if you were discovered... the Feroxi aren't very forgiving to foreign spies. With Raimi at the chopping block..."

"I thank you for your concern, but I've made up my mind," the silver-haired man's fists balled up, "At any rate, you don't get to where I am without knowing how to gather some information in secret."

"I hope you understand this isn't an offense I can pardon you for if you slip up; it'll destroy any trust the public has in the old system," the khan regnant continued.

The young man cracked his knuckles, "I have it under control. Fret not for me, Khan Lon'qu. After all, saving political careers is essentially my job."

Lon'qu reclined in his throne and smiled, "You're your father's son, no doubt."

* * *

"Uh, mom? You been staring out that window for at least an hour now. Aren't your legs tired?" the young man stroked back his auburn hair.

"Your mother's just... relieved, dear," she explained, a hint of the dried tears on her face still evident in her voice, "I just needed to think for a minute."

"Got any thoughts you want to share with me?" he suggested.

She smiled back at her son and pecked his cheek, "I want to see your dad as soon as I can. That's what I'm thinking."

He smiled meekly, "Yeah, I kinda figured."

"Will you leave with me tomorrow?" she wondered at once.

"Tomorrow? Uh... you don't wanna take a little extra time to rest?" he rubbed his neck.

"No. I'm going to see your father as soon as is physically possible. No exceptions," she said with firmness in her eyes.

He sighed, "Ah, all right. Just take it easy, okay? I'll do all the heavy lifting."

"Sure thing. Get some rest, sweetie," she instructed. He assented with a nod and walked out, shutting the door softly behind him.

"Robin," she whispered wistfully to the starry sky, "I'll see you again soon, okay? Don't cash out on me just yet."

* * *

Sylvia glanced up. Her father was no longer drinking his tea. "Hey, you awake over there, papa?"

He started, his eyes slightly widening, "Sorry, I suppose my mind was wandering. Are you finished?"

"Sure, let's get moving," she smiled, pushing up out of her chair. He did the same and softly patted her back. "I'm sure she misses you too, daddy," she leaned into his side.


	11. The Way I Like It

"Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in," the former tactician chuckled.

"Oh ho ho! You know me to be far above the mere affairs of felines, my olf friend," the man laughed with grandiosity, "For I am the Archest of Archers, the grand-"

"Duke Virion of Rosanne," his wife sighed, cutting him off.

"Cherche, my dear, must you always undercut me in that way?" Virion's face fell.

"Only when you get too big for your britches, milord," she smiled in an unsettlingly clinical manner.

"What's taking so long?" grumbled a voice from atop another set of wings.

"Have a little patience, Gerome," his mother demanded from below.

"I'm surprised," Robin admitted, taking the hands of both his former comrades, "you brought the whole gang here, eh?"

"I would do nothing less to aid a fellow man of unparalleled nobility, and-"

"Milord was hoping you could assist his crumbling nation once more. Mercenaries have been pouring out of Lieben into our borders for almost a week now, and we've had no way to resist them," Cherche explained in his stead.

"Another kingdom to defend," Robin sighed to himself, "feels like deja-vu."

"Father, this is perfect," Morgan nodded, "it gives us just the right context to seek an audience with their General Argent."

Robin smiled at his daughter, "Precisely, my dear. Virion, are you amenable to us finding a diplomatic solution?"

"If you can accomplish it, I would welcome anything that removes those scoundrels from our borders," the duke of Rosanne sank in worry.

"It won't be any good," sighed Gerome, nearing the ground, "Lieben wants war. It's all they've ever wanted out of Rosanne."

The former tactician shook his head, "You weren't around to see the Plegian campaign; no _nation_ wants war. Kings, queens, and nobles want wars, but _nations_ do not."

"Your rationale is as aged and defunct as you, old man," grunted the young man, taking the reins of his wyvern and jumping back up to the sky.

"You'll have to forgive him," Cherche declared, watching her son take to the air, "He has a hard time accepting things that conflict with his views. It comes from a nettling mother and an overconfident father, I'm afraid."

"I'm all too familiar with stubborn children," he laughed to himself. Morgan glanced disapprovingly at him, and Sylvia stifled a giggle. "All right, then," the former tactician inhaled, "I'd be happy to lead a diplomatic mission to try to talk down General Argent."

"I knew I could count on you, Robin, my boy," Virion's eyes glowed, "Huzzah!"

"Please stop saying that," his wife took Minerva's reins, "Hop on, everyone."

"Can Minerva really hold all of us?" Robin glanced at the wyvern carefully. It seemed to wink at him.

"Can she?" Cherche giggled, "She considers it a matter of personal pride. Now, get the lead out."

Robin shrugged and beckoned his small troupe join him on the back of the mighty onyx-colored beast. Inigo was the last to board, staring at the back of the wyvern's head with trepidation until he was secured behind the back of his betrothed. She giggled at him and patted his back, "You'll be fine." With a final lash from Cherche, Minerva began to climb, and the springlike winds of Lieben braced the faces of her passengers as she sped toward Lieben Keep.

* * *

"My lord," the young man bowed, the his sword glancing off the floor as he knelt, prompting an embarrassed breath.

"How went your little trip?" the purple-haired man wondered, staring out the window.

"Well enough, I should think," the Storm Blade laughed, rising to smile at his lord.

"That's funny," Nihilus pivoted in place, "because I seem to recall hearing that Arc was _dead_."

"Ah, acceptable losses," the swordsman with the leaf-green hair shrugged.

The purple-haired young man slammed his fist onto his desk, "Did you stop to consider if I would feel the same?"

"Milord," Cyrus's fist clenched, "As I told you on the day you recruited that egomaniac, we don't need him. Arc was a machine programmed to follow orders only until he decided he was far enough away to be touched by the hand of management, whereupon he simply did as he pleased. That's exactly what you saw happen when you gave him his assignment, and he died as a result. What the hell should any of us care?"

The young man marched himself within an inch of his subordinate's face, "Listen to yourself! We exist to give others a chance, not to determine their value in existence! This was Arc's first-ever unsupervised mission! Perhaps he was making plans that were outside the realm of my or your immediate knowledge, plans that would have furthered this operation?!"

"Well, then, I'd have been chuffed," the Storm Blade sighed, "but I found no such plans, so I can't force myself to make that assumption."

"You're a lot alike, you know," the disgruntled purple-haired man pushed his guard out of the way and turned to look back at the window.

Cyrus's fist clenched again, "Don't say that. That brainless beast couldn't hold a candle to me."

"In terms of conceit, I think you're both the size of bonfires," Nihilus scoffed.

The leaf-green-haired man smiled snidely, "But in terms of getting the job done, I think I've proven myself so much more capable."

His lord shook his head, indicating to Cyrus that he had won, "Did Dahlia, ahem, inform you?"

"Yessir," he recalled the instruction his fellow general had given him, and fished a small bottle out of his pocket, "I have it here. I don't know how well it will work, but I bought it from a very reliable merchant."

The purple-haired man took the bottle and uncorked it, "Thank you." After taking a small sip, he grimaced, "Gods... it tastes of raw seaweed, burnt garlic, and pegasus hairs."

"You must take your medicine, now, regardless, my boy," his subordinate smiled at him in a more genial manner.

"I'm not happy," he said, corking the medicine again, "If anymore of our men happen happen to be in jeopardy, I will expect you to come to their assistance, no questions asked. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal, milord," he saluted.

"You're dismissed," announced his superior, setting the bottle down on his desk, "I feel as though I need a nap on the sheer taste of that."

Cyrus chuckled and left the room, shutting the door behind him. A voice caught him before her could make another step forward, "You're a real piece of work."

"Was wondering if I'd see you again, Daffodil," he smiled coolly, placing his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Stop calling me that," she folded her arms, "My name is Dahlia."

"Sorry," he winked, "flower girls all kinda seem the same to me."

"You're insufferable," she rolled her eyes.

"Good to see you're alive, too, Dee," the Storm Blade rubbed his neck.

"So," she began after a pause, "Are you going to tell me what the hell happened with Arc?"

"He was a jackass and he bit the dust. What else did you need to know?" the leaf-green-haired man smirked.

"I'd like to know why you thought it was okay to just watch the poor bastard die," Dahlia pressed.

"'Cause he had it out for me since day one," Cyrus grumbled, "You mark my words: if we'd'a let that guy do what he wanted, he woulda been turning his big, clumsy axe on us within a week's time. Never heard someone so convinced of his own invincibilty for so little justification. He deserved a little dose of reality, and it turns out he was allergic, 'cause it was fatal."

"I suppose it's done now," the Rose Blade threw up her hands.

"Exactly," Cyrus nodded, "No use crying over spilt blood."

"I don't think that's quite how the saying goes," she glanced up at him.

"Whatever," he shrugged, "Anyway, your boyfriend's taking a nap in there, so don't go bothering him, all right? I'm going to get lunch, and I won't get chewed out in the middle of a meal again just because you can't figure out what to do with yourself."

"Uh... he's not my, uh... I don't..." the Rose Blade blushed.

"Knock it off, Dee, you look like a lost puppy without him. It's really sad," Cyrus reported with a grin.

"You're... mistaken," she protested, folding her arms.

"Uh-huh," he rolled his eyes, "Like I said, I'm going to lunch. I'll be at Flannigan's if you need anything."

"Oh, good, going to drown yourself in whiskey for the _fourth_ time this week?" Dahlia tapped her foot, regaining confidence.

He smirked again, "You know me so well, Dee. You wanna join? You could do to loosen up a bit."

"N-No..." she hesitated, "I'll just... stay here. I need to keep an eye on Lord Nihilus."

"Whatever you say, Dee," he chuckled, stepping out.

* * *

Steven parted the large metal doors, sighing dryly. He thought he would never tire of seeing foreign castles, but this blackened little vista amid the freezing cold of a Feroxi winter was enough that even the warmest and most comfortable lodging could not be suitable recompense. He was met with a stern-faced guard as he shuddered his way in.

"Who are you?" the man demaned gruffly.

"My name is Steven. I'm a dignitary from Plegia," he informed the guard.

"We weren't expecting you," the man replied, glancing down at what Steven had to assume was a list of appointments. His initial investigation had revealed that the new East-Khan was popular with his own subjects and foreign officials alike.

"Yes," the silver-haired man did his best to put on a worried face, "I was making a visit to the West... but I was attacked and run off by some of the khan's thugs, I do believe."

"Wouldn't surprise me," the man nodded with a sympathetic note, "You're seeking asylum, then?"

"Yessir," Steven bowed humbly.

"I'll see what we can arrange," he put the list away, "for your own sake, don't go anywhere."

"Of course," Steven nodded to the guard. The silver-haired man sat in silence. The conversation was too far away to eavesdrop on. He could get up, but he wouldn't have much time. Too little risk for too little reward; not worth the effort. He glanced at the trappings of the castle, some recently changed, as they no longer sported dust. Busts of former khans lined the stairway, Flavia among them. She looked out of place, the laughter implied by her eyes defying the stern and robust glare exhibited by previous warrior kings. A guard walked by outside, as Steven's ears picked up.

He heard him speak: "See anything?"

"One visitor, but he's handled."

"How're you holding up?"

"Freezing my ass off, but I'm okay."

"Ha, all right. Keep it together. Only another hour 'til your shift's over."

"You don't have to tell me twice."

"I'll see you in fifteen."

"Yep."

Interesting. Steven made a note of that.

Meanwhile, the guard began to descend the stairs, "My apologies, good sir, but my lords inform me we can't house others in our castle at this time, unfortunate as your circumstances might be."

"That is... regrettable," Steven's face fell.

The man nodded sympathetically, "I am sorry. I can offer you a warm meal, but that's about it. Short of that, I'll need you to be on your way."

"I see," the silver-haired man remarked disappointedly, "perhaps you could provide me with a bit of broth before I depart, at least? For the cold?"

"Of course," he snapped his fingers in the direction of the kitchen, "and a little Feroxi ale to keep you going."

Steven nodded thankfully. Ordinarily, he wouldn't drink (it dulled the senses) but he needed something to shake this ceaseless chill off of him. It was unbearable. The broth was brought to him in short order, whereupon he began to quickly slurp it down, followed by the ale, which took only a minute longer to be poured. He took it, too, and downed it a bit more slowly. "Not used to strong drink," he laughed knowingly to the guard, "All you ever get in most palaces is wine."

The man nodded happily in agreement, glad to see he had fulfilled his guest.

"The new khan... he's a busy man, eh?" Steven hazarded, taking another draught.

"You're telling me. I got folk like you in and outta these doors every moment of the day. The ones who get to the see the khan either hafta be checked out by me beforehand, and I don't even need to tell you what a pain that is, or, some of 'em carry some card that tells Khan Vlasis they're okay," the guard supplied.

"Really? What's the card from?" Steven wondered with genuine interest.

"I'm not quite at liberty to say," the man rubbed his neck, "but... well, suffice it to say they're doled out by a longtime friend of the khan."

"I see," the silver-haired man bowed his head. So there was little to no chance of him getting his hands on one... Unless there were one lying around somewhere. But he couldn't do that... But he would have to. He hadn't learned enough yet. He needed to gather more evidence. "Well," Steven declared, rising from his seat and returning the mug in which the ale had sat to its owner, "I thank you for providing what you could, my good man. I'll see my way back to Plegia with an escort once I find a town, and tell them of your hospitality."

"Of course," the guard nodded, "Safe journey to you, sir."

Steven bowed. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

The silver-haired man rubbed his eyes. He was going to wear them out with all of these night operations. That was what he had been told, anyway. He hadn't really ever needed glasses, but they did tend to make things easier for him nowadays, supporting the notion that his vision was fleeting. The cold whipped up and he pulled his cloak tighter to his chest. Stay focused, he instructed himself.

He prepared to skirt around the corner, but held off as he heard advancing footsteps. He cursed; Lon'qu had told him there would be guards. He paused and waited to hear the direction of the steps as they crunched in the snow. A shift and a pause indicated his opponent had halted in one spot. Steven leaned his head past the wall, finding the guard faving him, but staring off into space and not at the wall. Lucky, but not very; he would have to wait for the guard to face another way to advance. Unfortunately, it didn't happen: the guard walked closer.

Hells, Steven rolled his eyes. As the footsteps drew closer, he readied himself. How many steps? Five... and eight... that would mean... Three... two... He inhaled. One. The silver-haired man darted around the corner and seized the unaware guard, slapping a hand over his mouth and catching him in a headlock. The young man tried to squeeze his opponent into unconsciousness, but the guard began to struggle and resist. No time, have to hurry and end this. He slammed the man's face into the wall, where it left a shining ruby smear. The man collapsed to the ground and Steven rolled forward, throwing himself behind a tent as the snow continued to fall. Regular patrols... they have a check-in... at most, fifteen minutes before the evidence would be discovered. Clock was ticking.

With no one else observing, the silver-haired man darted forward, shaking the snow from his cloak as the large flakes piled into drifts that quickly covered everything below. That was good, maybe the unconcious body would be lost in the snow. It might buy him a few extra minutes. He halted at a crate near a wagon, being loaded up on the same side of the wall as the window. It didn't lead to the chambers of Khan Vlasis directly, (going straight for the target was a rookie mistake) which meant it was substantially less guarded. One knight called to another about supply shipments. There were at least two. This was going to be harder. Though still no problem for an expert, the silver-haired man rapped his fist on the crate and waited to hear the reaction.

"What was that noise?" wondered one of the guards.

"Maybe something fell," supposed the other.

"Wanna have a look?" the first proposed.

"Can't hurt," the other shrugged.

Damn. They were both coming. Steven sank to the ground and crawled through the powder to take shelter underneath the wagon. He watched two pairs of feet descend upon the crate he had been hiding behind.

"Should we open it?" asked one.

"It's still nailed shut... Nothing could've gotten in there, right?" the second suggested.

"Right," the first assented.

"Leave it, then. I'm guessing something just fell over," reported the other guard, fatigue staining his voice.

Steven winced. Ten minutes, if he was lucky. Desperate, he changed up his usual procedure. Pulling the seafoam-green tome out of his bag, he muttered the words, and the wind began to whip and howl, throwing the flakes of snow into blinding flurries. The icy cold struck the bewildered guards as they reacted, "The hell?"

"Can't see...!"

Had to stop them making noise. Steven leapt out from his cover and discharged his knee into the jaw of the first man he saw, causing him to slump straight to the ground with a groan. The silhouette of another shifted toward the noise. Steven flattened himself reflexively, allowing the man to walk over and find the mess. "What? Cole, what happened?" He drew closer. Closer. Closer... Now! The silver-haired man pulled the other guard down by his boot, and in the same motion, sprung to his feet so that he could plant his own boot in the guard's face. He was rendered silent, nose broken. Steven sighed and collected himself, glancing up at the window. Seven minutes.

No time left for perfect discretion, he lamented. He had to hurry himself. He brought out the tome again and leapt into the air, scattering the burst of wind below him to propel him to the windowsill. Stained glass. One way. No telling who was behind it. The silver-haired man reached into his sleeve and extracted the blade he used for emergencies. Its blade was sharpened to a fine needle point. He slid it gently along several panes of the glass until he had created a small window within the window to push through and did so, holding onto the panes so they didn't shatter as he entered. He stowed them in a corner quickly. There was no way to avoid having someone know he had been here at this point. He shoveled the remaining snow off his cloak and out the window to avoid leaving a trail. Damn, he had taken too long. Four minutes.

The silver-haired man took a deep breath and edged carefully around the walls, darting around corners. Surprisingly little guard inside. Perhaps they thought the outside ones were a sufficient deterrant. Fools. He hastened into a nearby office, its chair pulled out and papers strewn about a desk contained therein. He popped inside and looked it over. No card. Three minutes.

Another office sat on the opposite side of the central hallway. He checked the corner and dashed into it. Time was running out. He flipped through the papers more hurriedly. No card. No info on Vlasis. Nothing. Two minutes.

He would have to leave. What a waste. But, wait... The door to the khan's chamber was open... This was too easy, right? It had to be a trap... No time to think; he scurried to the side of the door, scanning one last time for any approaching guards, and peered in.

There he sat, the young man with snow-white hair. He was talking to someone, a figure cloaked head to heel in inky black. Identity indecipherable. One minute. Could he learn anything valuable?

"I'll be sending the shipments starting in three days, unless otherwise ordered by my employer, all right?" said the man in black. The khan nodded. "Then I must return to my own affairs, Khan Vlasis." Vlasis nodded again. The man turned and Steven finally caught a glimpse of his face: pale, light-blue hair and needle-point, colorless eyes. That was a distinct face.

"Where's Bertolt?"

Dammit. He had miscalculated. Time was up. The man in black looked in the direction of the cry, then focused his narrow eyes on Steven. The silver-haired man swallowed. Mission failure.

* * *

"Hair ties?"

"Check."

"Extra clothes?"

"Check."

"Spare weapons?"

"Check and double check."

"Maps? Food? Lockpicks? Water? Vulneraries?"

"Check, checkity-check-check-check."

"Bag of gold?"

"Crivens, mom, do we really hafta bring the bag?"

"Look, finding your father is my top priority," Anna breathed, "but I am not going _anywhere_ without my emergency funds."

"But a whole bag?" her youngest son complained.

"You'd be surprised, sometimes you need some serious spending power out in the world," she noted, straightening out her hair. They proceeded down the steps of the castle togther until they reached the throne room, where Lucina was busily giving preparation orders to the remaining Shepherds.

"Anna, Leo, what's going on?" she broke from her work straight away.

"We're gettin' outtta here. Sorry, Lucy," Leo explained curtly.

"But... why? We need you here," the princess demanded.

"Well, my husband needs me out there," the redhead reported defiantly, pressing on.

"You think you can find Robin out there?" Lucina realized.

"I don't 'think.' Merchants don't make suppositions," Anna explained, "We only go with sure things. I 'know.'"

"It could be dangerous to go alone, you know," the princess cautioned.

"Who's alone? We've got one another. That's enough," Anna continued to ignore her.

"I've never seen your mother quite so driven, even in any sale she's ever made," Lucina informed Leo.

"Yeah," the auburn-haired boy nodded, "Well, I don't claim to know, but I think Dad is a special case. All the gold in the world can't replace him. At least, that's how I bet she'd feel."

"It makes sense," the princess acknowledged, "will you at least try to convince her to come back soon?"

"Lucy, I don't know where you got off thinking, for one, that I can control what my mom does, and, for another, that you can impose orders on me. We'll get back when we get back, all right?" he returned.

Lucina stood back and watched as they left, "Such a temper on that one."

Anna and her son moved past the doors, prompting the reaction of their current guards, "Anna, Leo... leaving so soon?"

"Robin's out there, Stahl. I can't stick around," the merchant reported curtly.

"Do you think that's the best idea?" the knight wondered.

"Leave 'er be, Stahl," his wife commanded, "If that were you, stranded out somewhere, an' I thought I had some idea of where you were... You couldn't stop me with a wall five million feet high."

"Heatening to know," the viridian knight smiled, "At least take this, Anna. It might get you out of some trouble." He handed the redhead a Levin Sword. She gauged it contentedly in her hand.

"I can certainly think of how this might come in handy, all right," she accepted the gift, "Thanks, Stahl."

"Sure thing, just do your best to find Robin. But, uh, don't get yourself hurt, okay?" the paladin hoped.

"And when you do find that husband o' yours," Sully said with a smirk, "do me a favor and give 'im a big kick in the pants for givin' me the runaround like this." Anna nodded tersely and continued on.

"Now, we need ta see how we're going to get to Valm..." Leo put his hands behind his head and leaned back.

"We'll get a ship, from Regna Ferox," his mother supplied.

"Ferox?" her son repeated, "innit a little dangerous around there anymore? And how d'ya think we're gonna get a ship?"

"I know of one in particular," Anna smiled to herself, thinking fondly, "but... it might not be in the harbor at this point. If it is, we'll just have to buy one."

"Buy one? You're kidding..." Leo cocked an eyebrow.

"I'm not," she shook her head, "I told you we needed the bag."

Leo sighed to himself. This was going to be a long haul. He had been on trips with his mother when he was younger, but they were always so carefree, so independent of deadlines. Now, Anna was hurrying, and he was left in the dust, not with a cartful of goods, spurring on horses, but with a big sack of gold he had to bear over his shoulder. All the same, it was his mother's health that really worried him. Though determination had captured her eyes, she seemed ready to break. That was a face Leo had seen in far too many interrogations. If she heard the news she couldn't bear to hear, it would mean the end of her.

* * *

Morgan turned from her position on the wyvern, noting that her father had slumped down. He was all right; only sleeping. She took a breath and looked back at her older sister, who was cheerfully examining the sky. "I'm sorry we haven't talked in so long, Sylvie."

"Oh, no trouble, Morgie," she assured her, "I get how things are."

"Things only have to be that way because of father," the redhead grumbled, "one day... he'll be out of the picture, and we can get back to be closer. All of us."

"Don't talk like that," her sister scolded her, "Father loves you, he loves all of us. Don't imagine his death like it'll be some kind of release. What kind of daughter are you?"

"One who wanted to live her own life, but was fenced off by her father," the young thief retaliated.

"You're exaggerating," Sylvia pushed back.

"How would you know?" Morgan argued angrily, "You never saw it because you're all older, but he treated me the worst out of any of you."

"How can you say that?" Sylvia cocked an eyebrow, "Morgie... don't you know daddy..."

"It doesn't matter," she cut her sister off, "I have my freedom now, that's all that matters. One day, maybe he'll be able to muster up the courage and the sense to tell me he was wrong, and then maybe we can fix things a little, but I ain't optimistic."

"Funny, you used to be the most lighthearted out of all of us," Sylvia informed the redhead, glancing up to recount flashes of her sister pillaging cookies from their jars and playing with small animals in the forests.

"People change," Morgan rebutted tersely.

"They certainly do," Sylvia folded her arms, "There's always enough time to change your answer."

"What do you mean by that?" Morgan leered at her sister suspiciously.

"Nothing, Morgie, just working on my act," her sister prevaricated, "Are you sure? Would you like to take a different card? Yes? Well, pick one..."

Morgan shrugged. For all her purported knowledge, Sylvia could be a bit of an airhead when she wanted to be. The sun was setting over the horizon of Lieben. It looked like their meeting with General Argent was slated to be a late one. Hopefully the general wouldn't mind. Morgan shook her head, why did she care? Her father would be the one to do all the talking, like always, and she would be made to stand and wait in the wings until it was time to go on to the next meeting she wasn't allowed to speak at. It was her childhood all over again.

"How did the last job go?" Inigo wondered over his shoulder, catching his wife by surprise.

"Well enough," she recovered, "Ylisse should see its way to twenty thousand gold, plus a new chain of clothing suppliers in... well, I was going to say four days, but we might have to wait until this all blows over."

"'Blows over,'" he repeated, "Right."

"You don't think it will?" his wife cocked an eyebrow.

Inigo glanced over the side of the wyvern, "I don't know, Morgan. Something about this doesn't sit right with me. When armed takeovers occur, especially by bands of roving mercenaries, there's chaos and panic. Houses are burned, women are... you know, and buildings are razed."

"You're disappointed?" Morgan glared at her husband snidely.

"No," he refuted, "it seems... too calm, Morgan. Like, on some level, people expected this to happen. I don't like it one bit." Morgan only shrugged her accedence and glared at the sky.

* * *

"Look, you have to believe me, I was set up!" the silver-haired young man shouted from behind the bars, "It was another man! I'm just a Plegian dignitary!"

"Shut up!" shouted his guard.

He sat down, "Crap. Well, worth a try..." Steven took a breath, and, with it, took stock: the bars were to solid to cut through, never mind that there was a guard not four feet from him, there were no windows, and he was on the ground floor, so any tunneling he tried would, in addition to needing to be well concealed, take several months, if not years. That was time he didn't have. If they believed him to be a spy, in a land like Regna Ferox, he could be executed as early as the following morning. It all chalked up to bad news for the silver-haired Ylissean orator.

"Hey, you!" a whisper sounded in front of the cell.

Steven shook his head to rouse himself if this was a dream. He couldn't believe his luck, "Is someone there?"

A figure in an obfuscating red hood held a finger in front of where its mouth belonged, demanding silence, "Never fear: your savior is here."

"I don't mean to be rude, but could we cut the theatrics to a minimum?" Steven glared at the figure.

"That was minimum," it replied, "now, hush. I'm working on the lock." Steven watched intently as the figure brought its hands up to the padlock on the cell door and, with a few furious and deft movements of the fingers, followed by a series of clicking noises, the lock dropped straight off and into the hands of the figure on the other side of the door. The figure waved to beckon the silver-haired man to move.

"What about the guard?" he hesitated.

The figure pulled something from the side of the cell up to the bars. The guard's head slumped limply over his chest.

"How did you...?" Steven looked with intense confusion at the figure.

"Do you want to stand around playing twenty questions or do you want to get the hell out of here?" it whispered in reply.

"Fair point," he got up, slipping through the door.

"Follow me, there's a window just over here," the figure commanded. Steven obeyed, and the two leapt out a window from an inconspicuous exteral hallway, rolling and hurrying out into the snow.

As the two recovered their composure, Steven glanced back at his rescuer, "I'm much obliged, friend."

"Don't mention it, kiddo, the Scarlet Hood is here for you. Keep it mum, though," instructed the figure.

"I thought you looked familiar," he nodded, "but... in the stories, they called you the 'Crimson Hood.'"

"'Crimson...?'" the figure paused, "Argh! I thought we had this settled, it was 'Scarlet...!'"

"Might I just ask for your real name, then?" wondered the silver-haired man.

The figure immediately regained its composure, "Sorry, not today. Gotta run, kid."

Steven attempted to apprehend the visitor, but the blood-red hood and the person beneath vanished beneath a flash of light, leaving the silver-haired man to stand and scratch his head in wonder.


	12. Fruitcakes

The cutting winds of Lieben knifed along the back of the wyvern as it lazily flapped its massive wings with a tremendous force only once every few seconds, gliding without issue as it sailed through the air like a ship at full sail. The former tactician was currently rubbing his eyes, having drifted into slumber temporarily, consumed by a sudden stint of fatigue. While his eyes remained heavy, he resolved to keep them open, as his meeting with the general would not be long off. He glanced back and smiled briefly with content, seeing all his proverbial ducks in a more literal row. The Ylissean prince clung slobbishly to Morgan's hindquarters, his head unceremoniously resting upon the small of her back, just north of her rear, forcing Robin to shake his head and sigh. His eldest daughter looked little more dignified, also slumped over onto the wyvern's background and snoring quietly, a small puddle of drool hanging from the edge of her mouth, but at least, her father reasoned, there wasn't some blue-haired dandy holding onto her buttocks.

Eager to find a new subject for observation, the former tactician cast his gaze to his right, over Minerva's mighty wing, finding Gerome perched atop a different wyvern, gliding alongside them. He was without the mask Robin had associated with him for so long. He rode with a stern glare, despite the shimmering of his hair as it rustled in the chilling winds.

"You stare with a gaze with an intensity comparable to that of Minerva close to suppertime, my dear friend," a sudden voice caught Robin off-guard.

"Apologies," he muttered, "It's been quite some time since I've talked with you or any of the others. I was just curious about how Gerome has been doing."

"He is a good lad, as well he ought to be, per his rearing by the Fatherest of Fathers," the duke of Rosanne nodded, "and he has shown he is more than prepared to succeed his noble father in governing his homeland."

"Pleasing to hear," the former tactician took in, "though I take it he's not as much for the affections of courtesans as his father."

"Alas," Virion sighed, "Gerome shows precious little efficacy, and even downright apathy in the ways of romance, but perhaps he is still too young for such matters."

"Seems probable," Robin concurred.

"I would like to pose you a question, now, if I may, Robin," the archer introduced.

"By all means," the former tactician waved his hand before placing it upon his own chin to stroke his dark beard.

"I must impart that I am a trifle confused," the duke admitted, "reports from Ylisstol had told us that... well, we knew you had survived Grima's destruction, but..."

"My lord means to say that we were told you were dead, Sir Robin," Cherche expedited.

"I was getting to that," the duke of Rosanne hung his head in disappointment, "You have undercut my dramatic buildup, Cherche!"

"I expect Sir Robin would prefer to hasten to the heart of the matter," his wife replied with a roll of her eyes.

A crooked smile was resting on the former tactician's face as he stared at his hands, "I appreciate the thought, Cherche, but I'm actually curious as to the details: What were you told about me?"

"So little has time to occupy the mind of the most noble and legendary men such as my self that I frequently have difficulty recalling such trifles," Virion began, "but no message has ever stricken me in a manner similar to that of the one issue by Exalt Chrom some twenty years ago."

"I must say, even I was left quite stunned by it," his wife added in a tone that seemed inappropriately pleasant.

"Quite," the duke nodded, "The letter explained that the one known as Grandmaster Robin had ventured into the woods one night when the soil was slick and gray with moisture, taking with him his wife and disappearing into the inky black. They claimed your cloak had been discovered, bloodied and torn, in the mists of early daylight. I do not recall the specifics of that correspondence, but it occurs to me that at the time I daresay there was something unsettling about the way it was written. Clearly, the message had something of a malicious undertone."

"Perhaps," the former tactician breathed.

"Er, I was hoping you could elucidate that point a bit, old boy," Virion gestured.

"Chrom was upset with me," Robin replied simply, "we had a bit of a falling out. As a result, I dropped off into nothingness and all but Ylissean gentry were purged of my memory. That's the gist of it."

"B-But, you were so close..." the duke of Rosanne observed, "Surely you were too good of friends for that sort of thing."

"Afraid not," Robin sat back.

"Please, you cannot keep a man of my means in suspense," the duke begged, "What was the reason for this... how did you put it? 'Falling out?'"

"I don't really feel much like going into details right now. Anyway, isn't that Lieben Keep up ahead?" Robin pointed to a round structure made of the palest stone conceivable, standing in the shape of a pillar a few miles ahead, a lone window full of gold light standing as a dubious greeting to the castle, otherwise cloaked in the swarm of steel-gray clouds that were descending on the area. Another storm was likely.

* * *

The sound of a hinge creaking caused the exalt's eye to wrench open in a similar fashion. He sat up quickly and was forced to bring a hand in front of his face as he suddenly squinted in the onslaught of light that struck his face. With a whimper, his wife had risen and joined his side, holding his side tightly.

"It's been a while since we last chatted," remarked the familiar youth, "too long, in fact, and for that I apologize. But I'd like to speak now, if we may."

"I've nothing to say to you," growled the exalt, though his voice had been weakened by the weeks trapped in the suffocating prison, coated on every wall with rust, and presumably all manner of filth.

"Hear me out," commanded their captor, "I wish to speak about the one called Robin."

"Not helping your case," the exalt denied again.

"They say you were good friends with him, but that he... died. How tragic," the purple-haired youth folded his arms without empathy.

"Then there you have it," Chrom breathed, "what else did you need to know?"

"I'm not a fool," the young man knelt to the exalt's eye level, "and I can conduct investigations of my own. The Grandmaster of Ylisse is still very much alive, albeit reserved."

"I still don't see what more I can tell you," the blue-haired royal shrugged.

The young man nodded succinctly and straightened his hair, "I want to know why your little schism happened. What drove Robin away?"

"Why do you want to know that?" Chrom pressed.

"Because it interests me," the young man shrugged, "Now, stop wasting my time and just get on with it."

The exalt sighed. He didn't really have much choice, and at least this would provide a break from the hours of sleeping in darkness. "It began with a regularly scheduled meeting on foreign policy directed at Plegia..."

* * *

The former tactician stroked back a wisp of his hair and glanced over his own forehead momentarily to check that everything was in place. Satisfied, he looked back down, finding Chrom taking his seat at long last. Representatives from the various districts of the halidom sat around them, each sporting a different color robe and hat to signify their affiliation. They sat in numerical order of district working clockwise out from the exalt.

"Very well, then, gentlemen," Chrom placed his hand on the table, "assuming we are all adequately prepared, I'd like to bring this meeting to order." The representatives nodded and murmured their assent. "Today's issue," Chrom began with a subtle but large inhale, "will be the subject of dealing with Plegia. Recently, Ylisse has been made aware that a shift in Plegian governance is occurring, moving away from the proximal anarchy and military junta that has swallowed it since the death of their last king, Validar. This opens a door for new political interaction between our two nations."

"Ain't nothin' good ever come outta any Plegian. Damn 'em all, says I," grumbled a representative in red.

"Your contribution is appreciated as always, Sir Richard," Chrom rolled his eyes while nodding at the aging man. "At any rate," the exalt recovered, "what I intended to discuss was the proper approach to this new situation. Primarily, Plegia still owes Ylisse and Regna Ferox sizable reparations for the Mad King's War."

"The Plegians are honorable folk," proclaimed a man in green, "they'll be prepared to pay those reparations if we just sit them down to a good, rational talk."

"You're as naïve as they come if you think they'll pay in full after what's happened, Neville," challenged another in yellow, "We can't go asking, we have to demand."

"Demands are what start wars, Nelson," argued yet another who sported orange, "the Plegians need to be encouraged to act of their own accord, and only get a little kick when they get rowdy."

Chrom took a sip of wine as his head shifted back and forth between the debaters. With command, he raised his voice to silence them and projected it across the table, "Being the only one here of arguable Plegian descent, I'm eager to hear what you think, Robin."

The former tactician picked his head up, "Well... it's difficult to determine a course of action with so many unknowns. Who will the new leader be? How amenable will he or she be to Ylisse? Will the new leadership last? It's nearly impossible to decide on anything without defining even so much as one of those variables. The last thing we want to do, though, is play tax collector and come bang on the door of a nation like Plegian while it's snarling and bleeding in the corner."

"Well put, as always," the exalt bowed his head.

"With all due respect," motioned a representative in blue, "You don't know enough about Ylissean politics to be making such determinations, sprout."

"Can it, Lindsay," urged the man in green.

"I know what you've done for this land," the man in blue continued anyway, "and you're a smart boy, but you're not more than that. You don't understand the intricacies of this nation the way we old hats do. The only thing that appeals to Plegians is a show of force."

"At least I remember my history," Robin shook his head, "I know you old salts would care to conveniently forget 'The War for the Holy Ylissean Halidom,' but I remember it well, and so do the Plegians. Exalt Chrom's lineage is not forgotten."

"Show some respect, boy!" demanded the man in red.

"Peace," Chrom held up his hand, "My friend is correct. What my father did was monstrous, that cannot be denied. But we do have a serious issue at stake, here, and I need real solutions."

"Have we considered policing Plegia with military force until we can ascertain the situation?" wondered the representative in yellow.

"Viable," Chrom supposed.

"Out of the question," Robin resisted, "putting soldiers around the homes of starving and frightened people is not the way to earn their trust."

"But it would give us a chance to make contact with the proprietors of this new Plegian regime and ensure their stability if they prove amicable to our interests," the exalt returned.

"And if not? Would we let them collapse back into anarchy?" Robin growled.

"If necessary," Chrom tightened his fist, "I consider you a friend closer to my own heart than any other, Robin, but I cannot help but to think you are allowing your heritage to cloud your judgment on this issue."

"I might say the same to you," the former tactician returned, "Your father's blood still rests within you, Chrom. I see it rising from time to time, as with the beginning of the Valmese campaign. You do not see past your nation's own borders, at times, or even past yourself, at others."

"Are you blaming me for putting my country first?" Chrom replied sternly.

"As I would any man too consumed by nationalism to have regard for common sense. Chrom, the way to put out a fire is not to put a torch to it," his friend argued.

Chrom lowered his head and sighed briefly in vexation, a hot and stinging sigh, before cutting a gaze into the man across the table, "You have shown a remarkable fixedness in opposition to war and any conflict in the past, Robin, and while I admire your faithful pacifism, you must recognize that it is not always the most prudent stance of a nation."

"Perhaps," the former tactician breathed, "but I was never meant for the leading of nations. You knew that."

"You were always one to keep to your own affairs when unsolicited," the exalt recalled.

"Perhaps I'm merely sentimental," Robin shrugged, "but I've got a darling wife and a little boy growing up at home. I would ask the exalt to recall his own similar prospects and see if they do not alter his feelings on war."

"I'm afraid I've already made a thorough inquiry to that end and have determined that they do not," Chrom maintained his glare.

"Then I think my time with this court is ended," Robin dropped his hands onto the table, "It's clear my opinions are not those which ought to be taken to represent those of the Ylissean public, and I therefore no longer hold any place in this forum."

"Robin, wait, there's no need to be so rash," Chrom approached him.

The man halted and his cloak swayed as his back turned to the exalt, "Chrom, will you look me in the eyes and answer a question?"

"Of course," the blue-haired man drew near and faced his friend.

"Does controlling Plegia really mean more to you than being here as a father, taking care of your daughter?" Robin posed.

"Managing Plegia is the only way to ensure her safety," the exalt's sapphire eyes gleamed as they reflected his comrade's.

"And every other nation along with it?" Robin dismissed, turning before giving Chrom a chance to respond, "I've heard enough. Fuck your 'control.'"

The palace fell silent, save the echo of footsteps and the great creak of the doors, followed by their slamming shut.

[*]

"Per my understanding, he returned to his wife and children following that," Chrom breathed at the tale's conclusion, "He refused most other communication with me ever since."

"I see," the young man drank in.

"But, I ask again," the exalt affirmed, more resolute, "Why does this concern you?"

"Sir Robin is a very complex man," the purple-haired youth resolved, "and I am determined to better understand the nature of his character. I wish to know what it took for him to arrive at the point where he now exists."

"Your explanations leave quite a bit to be desired," the exalt complained.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Exalt Chrom," the young man ignored him, "I'll double your rations for this week. Oh, and I'll have Ludveck give your lovely Olivia a chance to get some fresh air. Under your supervision, of course."

Olivia clutched her husband's stubbly chin and winced.

"Be strong, Olivia," he urged.

"I know," she held him tighter, "I want to make sure you feel the same strength."

"I do with you at my side," he whispered.

"Perhaps we'll need to fix that," the young man muttered, shutting the door behind him.

"Oh!" yelped a small voice as the young man proceeded out.

"Sorry," he muttered, glancing down to find its source. The rose-haired woman was rubbing her nose, "I guess I wasn't watching where I was going."

"It's fine, sir," she assured him.

"You look a bit pale," Nihilus inspected her cheek, "are you feeling all right?"

"Of course," she nodded, "I wanted to deliver some news, sir."

"Right," he acceded, "to my chambers then, shall we?"

"As you wish," she followed him as he began to walk in that direction.

"While we have a moment," the purple-haired man declared with his eyes front, "there was something I wanted to say to you, Dahlia."

"Sir?" she picked her head up.

"You've done commendable work for me. I thank you for your dedication to my cause. I know it mustn't be easy," he proclaimed.

"I find your cause just, and would therefore stop at nothing to see it properly abetted, sir," the young woman bowed.

"You know you don't have to be formal with me," he reminded her as they ascended the stairs.

"You're my lord and I'm your subject," she determined, "it's simpler for me this way. It makes me comfortable."

"That's what's curious," Nihilus told himself, "given your background, I'd believe you to despise authority and establishment, and with more than fair justification."

"One of the many paradoxes of existence and human consciousness, I fear," she shrugged him off.

The man nodded and stroked his hair back; she wouldn't be talking today, either. Finally, they arrived at his chambers, and the purple-haired man inserted the key into the dark iron slot beneath the knob and pushed the redwood door open silently. "So, your news?" he invited, taking a seat on the bed.

"Ah, yessir," she nodded as if only now realizing it, "General Argent has sent word of a small party mobilizing in Lieben. He believes the Grandmaster to be among them."

"I suppose it was a little birdie that told him that?" Nihilus scoffed.

"Actually..." the rose-haired woman bit her lip.

"Wha- Really?!" the young man cocked an eyebrow, "I was joking, by Naga's fang..."

"He does like those birds a lot," his lieutenant noted.

"Believe me, I'm reasonably aware of how much he likes the birds," Nihilus massaged his temples, "Tell him he's not to engage this group under any circumstances prior to my direct order."

Dahila bowed, "As you command." Momentarily, the young woman hesitated and stared at her superior.

"Everything all right?" he noticed her.

"Apologies, sir," she hid her indiscretions, "what are your plans for the immediate future?"

"I was going to lie down," he remarked at the window, "It's still a trifle cold out, and, as you might imagine, I've been having some difficulty with... er, why are you asking, anyway?"

"I was only going to suggest you take some time to rest," the rose-haired woman provided, "You looked fatigued. I hope you'll feel better after resting."

"Yes, thank you," he faced his bed, then craned his neck back to her, "do see to my orders, if you would. And, when you have a chance, I would be grateful if you could bring me a small glass of wine."

"Easily done," she smiled slightly and nodded, exiting and shutting the door firmly behind her.

"Nervous as a newborn deer," the young man remarked to himself, rubbing his face with his open palm. The rose-haired woman did always seem to lack a certain confidence, and stared at him in the strangest of ways, as if she were evaluating a painting, rather than a living individual. A throb in his chest ended that line of thinking, and the man with the amethyst hair clutched at the sudden outburst, it seeming to feel like a knife had found its way between his ribs and lungs. His other muscles, too, became weak and fatigued at the sensation, and, with a defeated sigh, he lay down on the bed, covering himself with the blankets as best he was able. He despised having to be looked after like a child who had taken ill, but he was left without a choice, until such a time as he could obtain the exalt's treasure. But it wouldn't be that simple, he knew that. He would have to cross the final bridge only when it came to him. As he began to ponder the possibilities presented by the artifact, he found his pain dissipated and the young man fell quietly and quickly into sleep.

* * *

He stared down at the puddle and felt his eye twitch. He wanted to vomit immediately at the sight, but forced his stomach to quell itself, as it would only make the matter worse.

"What are you doing up, Shorts?" asked the black-haired, ash-covered girl, rising from her spot on the floor. He resented the nickname, but she claimed it was the only solution if he would refuse to tell her his name. The boy was sure that the latter was impossible. However much he trusted this girl, to make his name known would be suicide. He had, thus, resigned himself to the nickname over time. Apparently, he was so called for the short pants he was discovered wearing and for the fact that the girl stood about a head taller than he, though the boy believed this to be unfair, as it was clear the dark-haired girl had a few years on him as well. "Shorts" never gave an answer, only continuing to stare at the stain on the floor and restrain his throat as best he was able.

"Hey, what's wrong?" she insisted more softly, crawling over to him. The purple-haired boy didn't answer again as his eyes focused sharply at the floor before him, small tears in the corner of both of those eyes. Finally, his acquaintance looked down, "Oh, gods! Did you cough up _blood_?!" He nodded his assent weakly. "Okay," her eyes darted around the room in a panic, "Just... take deep breaths, okay? You're going to be fine." He wasn't sure he believed her, but the boy did as he was told and tried to slow his breathing. "Um... does something hurt?" she asked. The boy pointed to his chest. "Okay," she nodded rapidly, "lie down." He complied as the dark-haired girl began to haphazardly apply pressure to his chest. "I've dealt with a few bloody noses before... I hope this is the same concept."

"There's a man outside," the boy rasped all at once.

"Not now, kid," she hushed him.

"He can help us," he replied.

"Sure, whatever, but for now-"

"He _will_ help us."

The girl paused and stared curiously into the boy's eyes. They seemed darker than usual, and filled with an almost suspicious mix of confidence and fear. Feeling herself bizarrely convinced by the appeal, the girl shrugged her shoulders helplessly and got to her feet to open the rotting door of the small condemned house she had claimed almost two years ago as her own. Her eyes grew wide as she saw a man in red fatigues strutting down the dirty streets with a pair of thin spectacles on his face (which seemed permanently neutral in its countenance) and a comfortable swagger in his gait. Swallowing hard, she mewled from the doorway, "Um, sir?"

A gleam reflected off the man's spectacles as he paused in place with a final tap of his expensive-looking shoes and craned his neck back at the girl. He said nothing and awaited her with a smiling curiosity in his green eyes.

"M-My friend..." her teeth chattered, "He's... he's very sick... C-Can you...?"

The corner of his mouth was pulled into a sideways smirk, "Lucky for you, young lady, I happen to be a doctor. Show me to him."

Requiring nothing further, the dark-haired girl hastened into the house and knelt before the boy with the purple hair, who was currently holding his throat apprehensively. The Doctor approached him carefully and took to his other side. "The blood is his," the girl remarked.

The Doctor nodded, "Can you speak, boy?" The boy with the purple hair covered his mouth with his hands protectively. "I see," the man noted with a knowledgeable nod, "Not a bad idea. Tell me, where does it hurt?" The boy pointed to his chest, as before. Nodding again, the Doctor pulled up the boy's shirt to bare the skin and began to size it up, applying pressure with his palm to test for something.

"Do you have a staff, or something?" the girl hoped.

"I'm not a priest, dear," he continued to focus on the boy, "I don't worry about cuts and bruises. I deal in medicine, for illnesses." After a few more moments of silence, the Doctor spotted something that caused him to announce it, "Hello... what's this?"

The boy stared down at the Doctor, who met his eyes and seemed to ask the boy for confirmation. He looked down at his own stomach and realized what the Doctor had been staring at. The purplish mark just above his hip was not hereditary; it had been branded into his skin upon his birth in Plegia, or so he had been told in resentful tones by his father. The application of this brand was to sort out infants who could endure pain from birth from those that could not, and, fortunately, he had been a member of the former group. The Doctor nodded comprehensively.

"Your mother was a Grimleal, wasn't she?" he stared through the glare in his spectacles.

The boy swallowed hard. It didn't take much deducing to see that he was the child of a Grimleal, but how had the man known about it being his mother?

"Expiration," the Doctor mouthed to himself.

"What?" the dark-haired girl now loomed over his shoulder.

"Rare condition," he pushed up his glasses, "usually only occurs in those born in Plegia, and especially among those who travel. Seems to suggest it's a product of some component in the Plegian air that becomes vital to its citizens. Not enough experimentation done to know much; too few willing Plegians." In another moment, before the girl could conjure a question on the subject, the Doctor handed her a small amber-colored bottle full of a liquid that must have been clear, as it was the same color. "Take this," he commanded, "Have him take a quick sip when he experiences these symptoms. Concentrated Plegian water sample."

"B-But... what if we run out?" she wondered.

"I have clinics," the Doctor put his fingers to his forehead as his eyes were obscured by glare in the lenses again, "Almost everywhere you could think of." He handed the girl another item: a silver "V" that seemed to be a part of a larger piece of jewelry, "Here, hold on to this and visit any medical building. If you show it to someone in there, they'll be able to find me, I promise."

"...Um, thank you," she replied in accepting it, "but, what's the catch? Why are you helping us vagrants?"

His face pulled into another smirk, "Perceptive girl. I don't think of you as vagrants, but I do expect to being seeing you... frequently. Once in a while, I may call in a favor; a little errand, nothing more."

"I guess we don't have a choice," she resigned.

"Indeed, you don't," the Doctor stood, "For now, goodbye to you both." He disappeared from the doorway with almost unnatural haste.

Without a second thought, the boy took the vial from his companion and uncorked it, tossing a small quantity of the liquid inside into his mouth. Swallowing it, he felt a sublime relief and opened his mouth.

"Careful, don't drink too much!" she chided him.

The boy wiped his mouth clean and took a breath, "It's all right... I'm better now. And, that man... he's important. He's going to help us even more."

"I wouldn't trust that creepy guy," she shrugged.

"It's not about trust," the boy affirmed, "I... saw him. Like a dream, he was helping us, and we learned from him... There was a big black cloud coming after us, but that Doctor showed us how to fight it."

"Whatever, Shorts," she sighed and massaged her face. The boy noticed a shimmering trail along one of her cheeks.

"Were you... worried about me?" he wondered.

"No, I was worried that freak was gonna do something much worse than he did," the dark-haired girl growled, "So, if you're done sulking and causing problems for us, we've got some breakfast to nab."

"Right," he began to push himself on the ground, "Let's go."

She pushed past him to exit the doorway first. For a moment, the boy was confused, as he was greeted by the sight of a large tree, seeming to have been growing there for centuries, as opposed to the dirty alleyway they had ducked into one rainy evening. He marveled at the blue sky and mint-colored swaths of grass. Then he felt his wrist being pulled on by the girl, and the vision melted away to his expected surroundings.

* * *

"Ladies and gentlemen, Chrom's former Shepherds," she announced from the front of the room. All heads turned to face the sapphire-haired princess, who stood confidently before them, "I thank you all for you part in our success in reclaiming my family's castle. But the grave news that my father, mother, and brother are all absent from this place means I have further journeying to do. I would like to ask for your continued loyalty to that end, but I know that I cannot expect it. As such, I would like to extend to you all the opportunity, at this point, to end your cooperation with me and to return to your lives, free of consequence."

"Sounds good to me," the ginger-haired thief mumbled over a lollipop.

"We're staying," his wife tugged on his ear.

"Aw, strawberry jam," he rolled his eyes, concentrating back on his lollipop.

"We've taken an oath, so we ain't goin' nowhere," Sully folded her arms.

"That's right, sworn protectors of His Majesty and the royal family. We're here to stay," he husband came to her side.

"I'm with you, too," their daughter cropped up between them, cracking her knuckles, "I'm not a real knight yet, but I swear to uphold the vows of my family."

"Naturally, I'll remain by the same virtue," Frederick nodded to Lucina. He hadn't left her side. Sumia, who had turned up, as per the indication of the message Cynthia had brought, not long ago, nodded conjuctively with her husband.

"Likewise, a pegasus knight would never back down from her duties," Cordelia pledged, fist over her chest.

"And Gregor not leave beautiful wife to die. He is becoming fond of hot-blooded Ylisseans. Remind him of young, handsome, more baby-faced Gregor. So much... er, what is word? Enthrallment? Entropy? Exfoliation?" the aging mercenary trailed off.

"Enthusiasm, dear," Cordelia helped him along.

"They heard me, didn't they?" Kellam looked over his shoulder at his wife.

"Regardless, I believe there is little chance of complaint if we continue to follow. I feel certain our allegiance is more or less implied at this juncture," Miriel shrugged.

"Then I must thank you all," Lucina nodded sternly and gravely, "but I do not wish to provide any illusions: this will be a dangerous task. It has been determined that these aggressors hail from Valm, but are not entirely Valmese themselves: they are a band of mercenaries that have found a fostering home in Valm. Right now, they are few in number on the eastern continent, but the result of interrogations on some officials has demonstrated to me that that may not long remain the case. As such, I will deem it our mission to discover the intended landing sites for the invasion of these mercenaries, and lead the Legacy Shepherds to create a vanguard and thwart said invasion."

"'Legacy Shepherds?'" Kjelle repeated to herself, "That girl's been spending too much time with her cousin.

"After I'm satisfied that this invasion has been prevented, we'll make tracks to Valm to extirpate this group at its roots," she concluded, "Does everyone understand?"

A collective sound of assent escaped from the gathered group.

"Right, then," the princess accepted, "Get your things ready, we'll draw up movements tonight and execute them beginning tomorrow."

Another murmured sounded off as the "Legacy Shepherds" began to disperse to collect their belongings.

* * *

"D'ya wanna slow down for a second, mom?" begged her youngest son.

"Here I thought you spent all those years training, kiddo," she smirked, "If you're exhausted already... Maybe you need to improve your endurance."

"I'm fine," he asserted, "I'm wondering about you. You're usually pretty chatty, but you've been quiet as a church mouse since I met up with you."

Her eyes widened and she nodded, "I guess I didn't realize. Your mom can get a little over-focused when she has a goal in mind."

"Don't I know it," the young assassin shrugged, "I'm just trying to keep you aware. Plus... honestly, it kinda freaks me out when you're not talking about your inventory, or whatever."

The redhead chuckled, "I got the sense you got tired of hearing that sort of thing when you said as much to my face. 'Crivens, mom, d'ya really think I wanna hear about the price'a axes again?'"

"Do I really sound like that?" he put his finger to his chin pensively.

"A little bit," she smiled at him. They continued to march in silence for a few moments more until the merchant glanced back at her son over her shoulder, "So, an assassin, huh?"

His cheeks tensed, "How'd ya know that?"

"The insignia," she pointed to the emblem pinned to his clothes, "the movement style, the sword and bow technique... I've been around a time or two, kiddo."

"Around assassins?" he cocked an eyebrow.

"You'd be surprised how many people take a little good old-fashioned finegaling as outright theft," she replied with a neutral affect.

The young man shrugged, "I know you an' dad aren't exactly the biggest fans'o violence, but..."

"We understand violence, Leo," she remarked, "we just want to be sure that that violence is constructive in some way. Killing for killing's sake is no good."

"Well, I do it to maintain political stability in the world," returned the diligent assassin, "There needs to be an external check on political power; leaders can't be expected to regulate themselves."

"I think your father would agree on that point," the merchant nodded, "but you were never really a violent kid. Why the sudden change in demeanor?"

"Hard to explain," he faced forward, "but... To be honest, Steve's always been the clever one, and Sylvie uses her little tricks to keep people guessin', and then Morgan... Well, Morgan's always had her own way about things. Me, I didn't really feel like I had a way of influencing stuff around me, until I found the kind of power a single stroke from a blade could wield."

"Very sociopathically put," his mother chuckled at him.

"Aw, don't take the wind outta my sails like that, mom. I just mean... you know that old saying 'A stitch in time saves nine?'" he looked over at her, "Well, it's kinda like that. 'A blade in mind can save a nation's behind."

Anna giggled loudly in reply.

"Or, whatever!" he blushed, "I just mean sometimes the threat of death is enough to make sure things run smoothly. But to make sure a threat is consistently perceived, sometimes you have to put on a show of force, to make people know someone is watching them."

The redhead recovered and declared more soberly, "I suppose that has a certain logic to it, but who makes sure your little band of assassins is properly supervised? What determines conduct that requires action?"

"All written in a codex too complicated to explain all at once," the young man adjusted his cape, "I had to study it at the same time as I was training physically."

"Still haven't seen much of the results of that training," Anna smirked sidelong at her son. As if on cue, she felt herself roughly pushed to the ground, "Hey! I was pulling your leg!"

Her son gestured with his finger to request silence. He stared out onto the horizon and, with a large inhale, whipped out his bow, nocking the arrow and letting it fly in a fraction of a second. After hearing the whistle of the wind as it flew, Anna heard a muffled yell and the sound of something falling.

"Ha, right in the neck, _while_ you were movin'! Ya won't be tryin' _that_ again, will ya, ya sonuvabitch?!" Leo called out to the rolling hills.

As Anna stood, she traced his vision, "What're you talking about?"

He looked back, "You didn't see the guy on the hill takin' aim?" His mother shook her head. "Well, then there's one result of that training," he grinned. Anna shrugged and nodded her approval. They had miles yet to go before they reached Regna Ferox.


	13. Here's a Health to the Company

Steven shut his eyes to the stinging of the frozen wind, hearing his footsteps crunch loudly beneath him. He sighed acutely; he knew he should have worn thicker boots for this trip. Snow seeped in between the worn fabrics holding the old, black, leather work boots together. He rubbed his face gently with his gloved palm to warm his face, which was growing paler by the moment. The wind whipped his cloak out around him as he struggled over the feet of accumulated snow. The west-khan's palace was in view now, at least. Left alone with his thoughts, the silver-haired man began to drift his cognition to his rescuer. Whoever it had been had a very good method of protecting his identity: the voice was unrecognizable and mostly unremarkable, he hadn't been able to see the face (which begged the question of how the stranger himself managed to see), and even smaller details such as body language and combat style had expertly avoided detection, even to Steven, who prided himself on being an expert in matters of perception.

The door of the palace was close now. He had to think of what to say to the west-khan and his wife. What could he tell them? He has learned only one detail of real significance, but perhaps that information would be enough to prompt a reaction. The silver-haired man hoped so.

"Sol!" Steven heard exclaimed as he pushed open the door.

"Luna!" came the reply as the sound of metal clashing assailed his ears.

"That will do!" grunted the vastly deeper voice of the west-khan, standing near his throne, "It appears one of our guests has returned from his expedition."

The silver-haired man wiped the snow from his cloak and stood up straighter, "Evening, sir west-khan."

"Lon'qu, I insist," the man reiterated.

"Of course," Steven bowed, "Are Lady Lissa and Lord Donnel appropriately situated?" The silver-haired man slipped off his hood.

"Lissa is asleep," the west-khan reported in his typical neutral baritone, "and Donny has been assisting in restoration and maintenance around the palace. Quite a helpful lad, that one." A minuscule smile played along Lon'qu's lips.

"I see," Steven breathed with relief, "then things appear to remain under relative control."

"Other than those two shouting all day," the dark-haired man glared with malaise at Owain and Cynthia, who were now whispering the names of their moves at one another as if that ensured no one could hear them.

"Indeed," Steven watched them, too, "When did Cynthia arrive?"

"Just a day or two ago," replied the khan regnant, "her mother was carrying a correspondence to Ylisse. Apparently Ylisstol has been retaken, and Lucina has banded together several of the old Shepherds to combat the invaders on her father's orders."

"Brilliant!" Steven's eyes lit up, "That's wonderful news. Perhaps we can begin to wrap up our little sojourn here, then. All that remains is to ensure my family's safety..."

"I wouldn't be so eager," Lon'qu contradicted him, "Chrom has been captured, and, according Lucina, the aggressors who seized Ylisstol are planning a later invasion."

The silver-haired man's face dropped back down into the expression he had worn while trudging through the snow, "That is... markedly less encouraging news."

"I have learned that your mother and younger brother are among Lucina's cadre," the west-khan added.

"Truly?" Steven's ears perked up, "Then I may need to return to Ylisstol regardless."

"I would appreciate it if you would first share what you have learned," Lon'qu halted the young man.

"Ah, naturally," he nodded, "I forget myself. Unfortunately, Khan Lon'qu, the east-khan's security detail is more effective than I had anticipated. As a result, I learned precious little, but I can report this much: at the time of my visit, the east-khan, the one called Vlasis, a boy of rather minor stature and snowy, flaxen hair, was at court with a very old-looking gentleman who dressed in all black and seemed to make every effort to disguise his person. He had a silvery blue color to his hair, and he spoke to the east-khan as an equal, mentioning something about the distribution of supplies. I also ascertained that this elderly man doles out special invitations to certain individuals to allow immediate access to the east-khan. Unfortunately, I was unable to procure one for myself. I apologize that this report tells you little, Khan Lon'qu."

The khan regnant waved his hand, "You came back with your life and some information for further investigation. That's more than I would have expected out of most spies."

"Please, sir," Steven smiled, "I am no spy; I am an agent of diplomacy, nothing more."

"Quite," the khan smirked along with him, "In any case, I'll notify my intelligence officials and keep working with the information you've provided. In the meantime, you're welcome to stay as long as you'd like."

"Very generous of you, Khan Lon'qu," bowed the silver-haired man, "but I worry for my mother and brother."

"Give it at least one night's rest, boy," ordered the khan regnant, "If you're going to be able to find them tonight, they'll still be there in the morning. You seem exhausted."

"Sleep is but a passing fantasy to men of my ilk, good sir khan," chuckled Steven.

"Rest," Lon'qu ordered again.

"The most effective of hunters in my warren knew the value of avoiding overexertion, man-spawn," announced the khan's wife, stepping out from within the palace, "I would presume one of your purported intelligence to be likewise apprised."

"Perhaps you're correct, Lady Panne," bowed the silver-haired man, "If the khan and his wife both insist upon my repose, I would be remiss in refusing it. Thank you."

"It's no trouble," Lon'qu noted with a meager smile.

"If you are hungry, man-spawn, Donny and I have just finished creating a soup," Panne added.

"Allow me to guess: carrots?" laughed the young man, following her into the dining hall.

* * *

"...which is why I arrived here with such haste. No easy task, as I'm sure you can tell," concluded the old dignitary with a huff.

"I head you loud and clear," nodded the Plegian king, "but I dunno a thing about your little story."

"Now see here!" grunted the middle-aged man, "This gentleman claimed to be a Plegian statesman!"

"Did you ever consider that perhaps he was lying?" chuckled Henry from his throne.

"I'm not willing to believe your innocence in the matter, frankly. No one can absolve Plegia of suspicion after what happened just thirty years ago," the man folded his arms.

"Aw, well, I'm real broken up that you feel that way," the Plegian king laughed, "but I don't see how that's my problem."

"Dammit, I want answers, you scoundrel! What am I supposed to tell my masters?" the dignitary growled.

"Maybe that they should find a new guy to gather intelligence, nya ha ha!" cackled Henry.

"So you deny any involvement in the actions of this 'Steven?'" the middle-aged man pointed his finger accusatorially.

"Was that his name?" the Plegian paused a moment.

"Ah-ha!" the man opposite him leapt, "so you do know of him!"

"Not really," Henry shrugged, "I just don't think you gave us a name before. Thanks for that."

The man's face took on a shade of fuchsia, "Do you deny it or not?!"

"Does over two thousand pounds of concentrated force shatter a human femur and cause the most intense physical pain imaginable?" replied the king of Plegia. The other man hesitated and lost some of his passion. "The answer is yes," Henry elaborated, "Plegia had nothing to do with whatever espionage this 'Steven' guy was committing. We've got enough to worry about on our own soil; who cares about a buncha human popsicles up north?"

"As one of those 'human popsicles,' I resent that remark," growled the dignitary.

"Well, hey, you have been pretty cold," giggled the Plegian king, "and I guess you haven't melted yet, because you're pretty hard to swallow."

"How did I get assigned to this position?" the middle-aged man rubbed his temples as he muttered to himself. "At any rate, I also wanted to inquire about the absence of Queen Tharja. Where has she gone to?"

"Oh," Henry shrugged, "she likes to travel. She's always hanging around some destination or another. I don't even really ask any more."

"So your country doesn't know where one half of its rulers are?" snarled the man opposite Henry.

"What they don't know won't hurt them," Henry smiled, "You, on the other hand... you ask so many questions, you might not even know if you were going to get killed for that information."

The man hesitated and glanced around the room, "It's my solemn duty to gather as much information as possible to sate my masters' inquiries."

"Couldn't you be replaced by a simple piece of paper?" chuckled the king.

"I'll not stand for your mockery, villain!" charged the middle-aged man.

"Want me to yank off your legs, then?" Heny smiled broadly down his nose.

"I... believe I'll pass," the other man swallowed, "but do not think my superiors will be satisfied with your threats! They will come after you!"

"Then I hope they're a lot scarier than you are," the king laughed, "You're about as intimidating as a goldfish that's lost an eye. Do you know what they call that?"

"No..." the older man breathed carefully.

"A goldfsh! Nya ha ha!" Henry laughed hysterically. The older man shook his head and marched out the door.

"Don't you think antagonizing the Feroxi could lead trouble to our doorstep, father?" Noire mewled, meandering slowly into the throne room.

"Nah," he dismissed, "the Feroxi are all divided right now; none of them have much power at all, but the east doesn't even have the traditional authority of Khan Regnant. They're basically impotent, like a kitten pawing at an elephant. And then the elephant steps on the kitten and turns it into a big, squishy, bloody pancake. Mmm... blood pancakes..."

"Ew!" shrieked Noire, "Father, why do you have to make such dreadful analogies?"

"I'm the elephant in this scenario," he elaborated:

"I know, but it's gross!" his daughter shuddered.

"What?" the dark mage replied with amusement, "No way. That's just a little kidding around. Gross would be that time I broke a guy's bone halfway out of his arm, then stomped on him while I yanked it out and drove it right into his-"

"Stop stop stop!" Noire fled the room.

"I still can't figure out how she's mine and Tharja's daughter," shrugged Henry. Afterward, the dark mage put a finger to his chin, "So, Steven's been poking around. I wonder what he and his family have gotten themselves into..."

* * *

The walls of the castle were a stormy gray, suffocating the inside air with darkness. A few torches flickered meager light as they licked the walls. Robin stared straight ahead as the rain slipped gently off his hood. He could still hear the sound sharply slamming against the unyielding stone and mortar that covered them. The rest of his rain-soaked party began to slowly trickle in, absent Minerva and Gerome's wyvern, both of whom were none too pleased about being left in the downpour. The resentment showed on Cherche and her son's faces immediately. The former tactician performed one final scan of his group, Inigo moving a lock of Morgan's hair out of her eyes and Sylvia delicately kicking the rain out of her boots; the dark of night was slowly weighing on the outside air as the door was shut behind them.

"You," one of the guards of Lieben Keep, dressed heel to brow in crimson platemail that shone like the sun even in the meager light, pointed at Robin, "You're the Grandmaster, right?"

"That's what they call me," he reported with a snide smile.

"General Argent has requested a council with you," explained the guard.

"What a coincidence," Robin remarked flatly, "I had some business to discuss with the general, myself."

"Excellent, he'll be waiting in the war room, just behind that wall," the same guard indicated with his finger, "but your companions must remain here."

"That won't do," the former tactician shook his head.

"Sir?" the guard raised an eyebrow uneasily.

"I have in my company my two daughters, my son-in-law, and the duke and duchess of Rosanne as well as their son; I won't be refused their part in whatever negotiations the general desires," asserted the aging tactician.

"Please, sir," begged the guard, "I can't let all of you in."

Robin glanced back over his shoulder, "At least allow Duke Virion to accompany me."

The guard paused and nodded, "That may be for the best. I believe General Argent would be agreeable to that."

"Father," Robin heard. Turning his head around, the short, redheaded girl had stepped forward, "I want to be a part of these deliberations, too."

"Depends on what the nice fellow in the armor says, sweetie," her father quipped. Morgan didn't find it funny. "Do you expect General Argent would be opposed to my youngest daughter accompanying me, as well?"

The man in the red armor looked to each side and relented, "I can't imagine he would strongly object to it, but that's it. No other visitors."

"Thank you," the former tactician nodded, "that should do just fine." Their roles decided, Robin proceeded to the meeting place with Virion and Morgan behind and on either side of him. "I didn't know you were still so ardent about learning your father's practice," Robin whispered to his daughter.

"I'm coming to make sure you don't get ambushed and killed," she scoffed, "seeing as how you don't have the sense to anticipate such things, apparently."

Robin fondled the hilt of the blade tucked in his sleeve, "Indeed, perhaps your father is becoming a sentimental old fool."

Inigo stared as they left. After pondering his wife for a moment, he turned to his sister-in-law, "You didn't want to go with them?"

"Of course I did," she smiled brightly, "but Morgie's the one who's way into strategy. I don't know much about it, and that guard seemed to be finished making concessions, so I wasn't going to press the issue."

"You share your father's tact, dear," mused Cherche.

"Not to mention his apparent ennui," grunted Gerome, "do none of you care what's to occur in these negotiations?"

"Nothing is going to get resolved by stamping our feet and making demands," Sylvia put her hands on her hips, "that's one thing I've been taught."

"I'm sorry I can't abide and sit on my hands," snarled the heir to House Virion, "I suppose it would be the teaching of a tactician to wait around while the action is happening and let the fighting sort itself out, as if that could possibly work."

"Usually, I'm not partial to fighting, but you're giving me a very good reason to drop the gloves, you snooty rich boy," Sylvia scowled, swiping a curly bang out of her face.

"I don't have to take this," scoffed Gerome, "You Ylisseans are all the same."

"Gerome," chided his mother, "that's quite enough. Sit down and be silent."

"Yes, mother," he obeyed with a sigh, taking a seat a good distance from the tactician's eldest daughter. She herself huffed and produced a few playing cards from within her sleeve.

Meanwhile, in the war room, Robin and company took their seats around the dark wood table, polished to a perfectly glossy sheen, and faced the mountainous General Argent. Argent was an utterly massive man, taller even than Kellam when he was sitting down. His head appeared mostly bald, but, in fact, observing it from the back showed that what remained of his salt-and-pepper hair was tied into a small ponytail. The rest of said hair appeared to have migrated onto his face, for he had a true king's beard, that reached out and over his lips, but was halted there until it reached his chin, whereupon it fanned out and formed thick connections with what used to be his sideburns. "So," his voice was deep and pointed, and very nearly shook the table, "Do I truly address Grandmaster Robin of Ylisse?"

"That is how some choose to call me," Robin bowed, "I'm not much for such gaudy appellation."

The massive man nodded, "Then you and I are of a like mind. These men, my men, they call me 'Silver Soldier...' I tell them how ridiculous it sounds, but they seem to enjoy the reverence the title engenders." Closer inspection revealed the reason for the title: Argent wore an equally massive and gilded suit of shimmering armor that would seem more akin to pure porcelain than metal if not for the prismatic sheen that radiated from the glittering plating. Intricate leafy patterns trailed along the shoulder guards and vambraces of the sterling suit, and gold trim separated the pectorals of the breastplate from a less flashy but more practical-looking sheet that covered the area above the solar plexus.

"Let's not mince words, then, if we are truly of such kinship," Robin put his hands on the table, "I am a friend and former comrade of Duke Virion. He tells me you are attacking his lands."

"I cannot deny it," Argent bowed.

"May I ask why, so that we may put a stop to such hostilities?" wondered the former tactician.

"Surely a learned man such as yourself is aware that Lieben and Rosanne have had many a conflict since their formation," the general offered.

"True, I was briefed on that," Robin acquiesced, "but I was led to believe that such barbarism had since been strictly reduced, in part due to the invasion led by the Conqueror not too long ago."

"Again, you are correct," accepted Argent, "however, Rosanne has acted in a manner that has impugned our recent peace. Perhaps the duke can inform you further."

Virion coughed and tugged at his cravat. "Virion, do explain," Robin implored in a less than sincere tone of voice.

"Er, quite," stammered the duke, "Indeed, unfortunately, it was recently revealed that a spy of Rosannien descent made an attempt on the life of one of the good General's top men, as well as Herr General himself."

The former tactician furrowed his brow, "I see. My apologies, General Argent; this wasn't brought to my attention beforehand."

"Surely you can't condemn a whole nation on the actions of a lone man," Morgan insisted from the other end of the table.

"While the people of Lieben have more recently enjoyed a steady, almost brotherly sort of platonic rivalry with Rosanne, violence against their own is something they are unwilling to tolerate. This reaction has more or less forced my hand," rebutted the general. He looked with interest at the redheaded girl as Virion sweat and Robin paused to think. "Sir Robin, is this young lady your student? The two of you speak with one voice."

"That would more likely be because she is my daughter, General Argent," Robin smiled good-naturedly.

"And she fancies herself a strategist, like her father," concluded the Silver Soldier, "how delightful."

"This is a required job. I joined my father out of fear for his life, not to act a part," Morgan resisted.

"I see. I hope you do not truly expect my men or myself to sink so low as to murder a negotiating party," Argent returned with a note of injury.

"Never, good General," Robin shifted his arm to ensure that the blade in his sleeve was well concealed from sight. "I'm sure Duke Virion denounces the actions of this misguided individual, does he not?"

"Oh, but of course," Virion nodded quickly in affirmation.

"Then there you have it, General," chuckled the former tactician.

Argent shook his head, "My people will not accept such an explanation. And if I may be frank, good Sir Robin, I am loath to accept it as well."

"Perhaps a trade would be a more amenable solution," the redheaded girl offered, "A concession of some kind on the part of Rosanne. Would that please the people of Lieben?"

The general smirked, "Unless you intend to cede the entire territory, I hardly think so."

"General, please," Robin implored with a serious heft to his voice, "be reasonable. We want to avoid war, as I'm sure you do, so help us find a solution that allows for that result."

"There can be no peace here. I thought that was clear," Argent replied, disaffected.

The former tactician furrowed his brow, "Then why was it your men said you desired to see me to begin with? This whole meeting is fruitless."

"I wanted nothing more than to ascertain the truth about the legendary Ylissean tactician. That you have a vested interest in protecting Rosanne is unimportant to me. I will have my war, and if you endeavor to stop me, you will become a casualty thereof," declared the Silver Soldier, rising from the table.

"That's absurd!" scoffed Robin, "You don't care at all about maintaining safety or peace for your countrymen?!"

"Be not so harsh in your judgment, fair grandmaster," assuaged the mountainous man, "This war, whether you realize it or not, will be the perfect way to create peace for my people. Just as to build a home one must tear down a forest, or in the way that desert winds feed the wings of vultures and songbirds in equal measure, there are necessary evils in the world; the greatest of life can only truly arise from strife and hardship."

"I take it this concludes negotiations," the former tactician stood as well, bidding his comrades do the same.

"Correct," Argent breathed with a merciless gaze, "Remove yourselves from my keep at this time, then, please. If I am to kill you, I will do so on the field of battle, as is proper."

"Understood," acknowledged Robin, leaving the room with his allies.

"Damn, that didn't go too well," Morgan lamented upon leaving.

"I had feared as much," reported her father, "Still, something about that encounter struck me as odd. His actions... perhaps he's being coerced?"

"Father?" Morgan snapped him back into reality, "Do you think this war has any connection to those strange people in Chon'sin?"

"So, you got that sense too," he smiled, "Yes, I have significant reason to believe they're related. And the attacks on Ylisse, too."

"Agh, that's right! Ylisse!" Morgan gasped, "Do you think people are okay there? What about Steven and Leo?"

Robin smirked and chuckled to himself, "Those boys can handle themselves, no doubt. And, if I know Chrom, he'll have contingencies in place to take care of his homeland, even if he's not around, himself."

"Chrom's not around?" the little redhead swallowed.

"We'll talk more about it later," Robin told his youngest daughter as they returned to the remainder of their party.

"How'd it go, daddy?" hummed Sylvia.

"Not too well, sweet pea," understated the aging tactician, "We need to leave."

"Bah, I knew your words would be meaningless, you tired dotter," growled Gerome.

"Indeed, I've failed," Robin nodded, "but now comes the more exigent issue: preparing for war."

"And just how do you expect me to handle such a war, Sir Robin? Can you not see that I am doomed?" demanded the duke of Rosanne.

"I'm going to help you through it," coughed Robin, "on the battlefield. We'll stop this General Argent and learn what he knows, and in the process free your dynasty, savvy?"

"That is... most generous of you, Robin, old friend," declared Virion's misty eyes, "Only tell me where to begin."

Robin nodded as he began to mount upon Minerva, feeling the rain slick down his hair and pulling up his hood in response, "In any monarchical or dictatorial situation, there's bound to be some groups opposed to the majority rule. We'll start exploring the cracks in the wall there and start to bring the masonry down bit by bit."

The rest of the group began to hop back on the wyvern along with him. It would be a long ride out.

* * *

The old glass was dotted with stains of improper cleaning. Well, dotted was perhaps too kind; it was littered with such spots. In fact, the glass was downright filthy, but when held up to the light just right... well, to him it still looked perfect. The noise in the tavern had spiked in the evening with the accompaniment of low torchlight playing a melody of conversation onto the floor. The dirty, dirty floor. He laughed giddily; the thing was so filthy it probably put dirt to shame, but he still loved the old wood building. It was his favorite in all the towns he had come to visit. Taverns were always the first location the Storm Blade made his appearance at upon arriving somewhere new, because there was no pretense or judgment there: one simply drank and laughed, with friends or with total strangers alike, there was no politeness, no formality, only drink to be drunk, food to be eaten, and words to be had. A great many words. Even if most of them were totally incomprehensible or incoherent. Cyrus smiled broadly, smacking the glass down on the table, spilling the last of the wood-brown liquid inside out onto the decrepit table. He had greatly amused himself with his observation. Without further prompting, he glanced at the few chatting patrons around him and raised his voice, "Here's a health to the king... and to lasting peace... To faction end, to wealth increase... Come, let us drink while we have breath, for... heheh... for there's no drinkin' after death... And he that would this health deny..." Slowly, his singing voice began to taper as he felt himself sinking to the table, "Down among the dead men... d-down among the d-d-dead men... How'd it end? Down, down, down, down... down among the dead men let him lie!"

"Oh for the gods' sakes," Cyrus heard, rousing his head from the table. A familiar pink-haired woman had folded her arms and was scowling with disappointment at him.

"Hey, Dee!" he grinned, "Come ta join me after all! I knew ya'd do it, you... you silly, uh... you beautiful lady."

"Are you determined to extirpate any respect anyone might hold for you?" Dahlia demanded, tapping her foot on the hard, aged wood.

"Aw, respect is," he paused and pursed his lips to exaggerate the sound, "b-bullshit anyways... heheha... I'd rather have a g-good time! Innat right, mate?" The Storm Blade hooked his arm around the neck of another patron who had been unfortunate enough to sit near him. Said patron stared at the man with the leaf-green hair uneasily. After a moment, Cyrus appeared placated, "You get it." He pointed to the man beneath his arm for Dahlia's reference, "Th-This guy... you know, he... uh, he... uh... he... g-gets it..." Cyrus began to taste his own lips before beginning to shout, "Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme! Come lift up your voices-"

"There'll be none or that!" Dahlia slapped a palm over his drunken mouth, "Now, come away. I'll drag you back one piece at a time if I have to."

"Aw, don' be such a nag... a spoil-sport," he hissed, "Yer not my mother or my wife, so just leave me be, eh? I'm, uh... enjoyin' myself."

"I don't care," the rose-haired woman continued to tug at him, "You need to come back. And don't think I'll be covering for you when you have your inevitably disastrous hangover."

"Oh, yes ma'am," he teased with an excited giggle, "Listen to this daft bird, thinks she can yank me to and fro... Just lemme get one more 'fore we go."

"No, Cyrus," Dahila tried to meet his eyes, "we're leaving."

"Jus' one more... wunmuh..." he pleaded, stuttering toward the bar. As he moved, another patron grazed past him and knocked the glass from his outstretched hand. He watched catatonically as it struck the wood below and shattered. "Ay! Asshole!" the Storm Blade cried after the man who had shoved past him, "Ya broke my favorite glass!"

"Oh, hells," Dahlia shrugged, releasing her captive.

Immediately, the man with the leaf-green hair staggered forward, "Broke muh glass... think ya kin jus'... jus' walk by me? Na-na-nah... Now we gotta problem, you an' me." Cyrus pointed at the man accusatorially.

"Why don't you just siddown, you dumb sod," the same man pushed him, "You're too drunk to stand as it is."

The Storm Blade suddenly smirked, "Obviously, you dunno who I am, so I wanna know what makes ya think ya can talk to me like tha'."

"I run an arena a few miles to the southwest, so I'm more than used to dealing with some overzealous drunkards, if that's what you're getting at," grunted the patron.

"Oh... oh, I see," Cyrus wheezed out a laugh, "But I ain't no mere drunkard... I'm the Storm Blade, Cyrus, baby! My blade makes a tempest with every swipe! I move like the wind, hit you like rain, and strike hot and loud like lightning!"

"Right," the man pushed Cyrus again, "Just sit down, you nut."

Without another word, the green-haired man lobbed a punch that squarely struck the other man's jaw. With a grunt, the arena owner turned and struck back, denting Cyrus's chin. Then he jabbed again, and again, and again until he had knocked the Storm Blade in the face about ten times. As the arena owner waited for his opponent to topple into unconsciousness, the leaf-green-haired man began to laugh loudly and insultingly, earning him another punch. This one, however, he caught and twisted the arm of his adversary. He giggled maniacally as he shoved the patron over to the bar and smashed his head off the countertop. The arena owner picked himself up and wrenched himself from the Storm Blade's grasp and took another swing, aiming for the stomach. It landed and sent Cyrus stumbling backward into destroying a table. Still, Cyrus regained his footing and leered st his enemy. With a charge, the Storm Blade lifted the arena owner off his feet and sent him crashing head-first into the counter again. He followed up by taking a glass and smashing it firmly over the opponent's head, then repeated the process with all nearby glassware until the arena owner's head was bleeding in an innumerable quantity of scratches. When the owner picked himself up, he swung his foot into Cyrus's shin to create some distance as the swordsman doubled back. Afterward, the patron continued to levy punch after punch into his victim's cheek, until the leaf-green-haired man's nose was clearly bent out of place and bleeding profusely. "And where's all your bravado now?!" jeered the arena owner as he paused to take a breath.

"You tell me..." laughed the Storm Blade, "when you learn what your own spine tastes like!" With a vicious leap, Cyrus drove his elbow into the other man's face, breaking the nose like fine china. Afterward, he kicked at both of his foe's legs until he dropped to the filth-ridden tavern floor, whereupon the leaf-green-haired man dropped a punch onto the man's fallen face, followed by another, then another, and another... Eventually, Dahlia sighed as she stared at the blood-soaked stumps that were once the arena owner's face and Cyrus's knuckles. With a final utterance of "prick," Cyrus fell to the floor, prompting his partner to grab his shoulders and slowly drag him out of the tavern and into the streets. "Put the damages on his tab," requested Dahlia of the tavern's owner.


	14. Way Back Home

A dozen pairs of eyes wept as they crowded in the center of the small village, a crude fire burning in the middle of the cobblestone street. The invaders, clad entirely in either red rags or crimson, gleaming armor, stalked around the area, leering at the five men kneeling on the street, resentment burning in their eyes as they sat with their hands bound.

"Now, listen up!" the commander of the invaders, a very unruly-looking man whose sleeves were torn and whose hair was a mess, called his men to attention, "I'm gonna complete our little demonstration here. The rest of you, here's the stakes: one gold for the head of every able-bodied man you bring me, five for any belonging to Rosannien nobility, ten for any filthy half-blooded Plegian scum, and if you bring me the head of a full-blooded Plegian sorcerer... You win."

* * *

Robin stepped off the wyvern first as the old man hobbled over to them as quickly as he could, muttering indistinctly. He came up to meet the once-again tactician shortly, "Oh, please, sirs! You've got to help us!"

He had flagged them down. This meant real trouble. "What seems to be the matter, sir?" Robin responded in the kindest voice available to him.

"The Liebenese! Oh, it's horrible, sir!" exclaimed the balding old man.

"Robin, have we the time for such delay?" asked the duke of Rosanne, leaving his wife's mount, "The capital is in danger as well. We should avoid petty distraction."

The old man's eyes widened, "Oh, praise be to Naga, Duke Virion! You must save our humble village, monseigneur!"

"Calme-toi," ordered the Archest of Archers, "Pray, what has befallen your village, good sir?"

"Those dastards from Lieben, they rounded up all the working men around town, and they're going to execute them right in front of their poor gods-fearing wives and children!" the old man's eyes tightened.

"What do you think, Robin?" asked the archer, "Worth our time?"

"For hearts and minds?" he smirked, "I think I can handle a bunch of petty murderers like this. Let's go."

"Understood," Virion nodded, "Cherche, Gerome, everyone, we've a skirmish to fight!"

"Here I was hoping to not have to mess up my hair," Sylvia slid down the wyvern's back.

"It's always a mess, Sylvie," her little sister teased.

"Do try not to get blood on you, dear," Inigo offered his hand to help his wife down, "I would hate to see your beautiful face tarnished by the ugliness of combat."

"I've seen plenty of blood and ugliness," the little redhead smirked, pulling her knife from her satchel, "Thieving is a more dangerous profession than most would have you believe."

"The plan is simple," Robin announced as his troupe began to gather round, "The enemy has a number of small, light units spread about an open field. Their commander is in the center of the village, one would predict, and the either way, I'm certain that's where the prisoners are being held, given that it's the only safe place. Cherche and Gerome, since you have winged mounts, I'll count on you to close up on each flank of the enemy. I would suggest you take the left, Cherche, as Minerva is a bit more resistant to magic."

"Wouldn't it make more sense to have us just kill their commander?" Gerome grumbled, "Then the fight would be over."

"Not necessarily," the tactician stroked his beard, "To kill their commander would disincentivize them, certainly, but it wouldn't create the same kind of hopelessness as knocking out a few of their peers would. Plus, if the enemy can see two wyverns making for their camp, they wont hesitate to kill off their prisoners immediately. We need to be more subtle, which brings me to my next point..."

Morgan stared at him and played with a bangle on her wrist as he faced her, "I'm going after the commander, huh?"

"As quickly and quietly as you can," he nodded, "it shouldn't be a problem for so skillful a thief, should it?"

"Don't patronize me," she pushed him out of the way.

"Wait, don't run off, my love," Inigo followed behind her, clutching his sword.

Robin stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, "Don't let her get hurt, Inigo."

"On my life," the Ylissean prince swore by putting his hand over his heart. When he was released, he resumed his pursuit of his beloved.

"What about us, daddy?" Sylvia put a finger under her chin.

He smiled softly, "I'm too old to be doing any real fighting. You, Virion, and I will stick to support roles: Virion and I can cover from afar, and you can do your healing when we need it."

"Right, then," she cracked her knuckles, "break!"

Cherche and Gerome took off, and the remaining three began to march forward in a triangle formation.

* * *

"Now, which one of you wants to die first?" the unruly man cackled to himself. "You," he put an axe beneath the chin of the first man in the line, "That your little girl with the pretty little pigtails?"

The man glanced up at the girl, clinging to her mother's dress, crying her reddened eyes out and sniffling silently. He made no comment.

"C'mon lad," demanded the Liebenese man, "There's no use in tryin' ta hide it from me."

"Herr Kommandant!" shouted a mercenary as he stumbled up the streets, "You won't believe this: there's dragons swoopin' outta the sky and picking our men off!"

"W-Was der...? Where did they come from?!" he demanded angrily.

"We don't know," the young man bowed, "but there's precious little to stop them."

"Secure the prisoners, we'll use them as leverage if we must," the unruly man ordered.

"Ja volt," his subordinate obeyed.

"Wyverns?" the Liebenese commanded muttered to himself, "Who could be after us?"

* * *

One breath, exhale, and... slip. Morgan whipped the knife out of the man's throat, letting him slump to the floor, clutching at the suddenly-inflicted wound. "All this sneaking around is a nightmare on on my back," complained her husband.

"Shush. You blow my cover and a lot more than your back will be in jeopardy," the young redheaded thief returned. She vaulted over a stack of crates and covered herself in a tarp that sat atop them. Inigo simply circumvented the previous cover and walked to her position to crouch down. She frowned wordlessly at him. "Not much of a patrol here," Morgan remarked to no one in particular, "we just have to carefully work our way into the center of town and find the best dressed guy there, then we're golden."

"Is it always all this planning and hiding around with you?" her husband asked, sighing briefly.

"It's not a duel or a fencing match," she rolled her eyes at the prince, "It's a real fight with real people, people who aren't too honorable to grab you by the throat and shove a sword clean through your intestines. I have to be ready to do the same."

"How... charming," Inigo covered his mouth.

As footsteps sounded out just beyond the lines of the crates, Morgan peered over. A Liebenese soldier strolled by the alleyway, doing nothing in particular, whistling a tune. Seeing the opportunity, as he strolled by the crates, Morgan grabbed him, threw him to the ground on the other side of the crates, and stuck her knife in his throat. After a few seconds had passed, she whipped it back out. "This would make a good disguise, if you want to get a jump start on rescuing the villagers."

"What?" Inigo lifted his head, appalled, "But he just bled on the-"

"It's red," Morgan noted.

The Ylissean prince's brow sunk, "Fine. I hate you for this."

"Afraid to get down and dirty for me, princey?" his wife giggled, "Go on, get it on and start looking. I've got a commander to take down."

* * *

"Father..." Sylvia mused as she walked behind him, "It's been quite a while since you last saw all of us, hasn't it?"

"I suppose," he smiled, "What of it?"

"Have you been lonely at all?" asked the performer with the chestnut hair.

"That's a loaded question," the tactician chuckled, "Sure, I miss you girls and your brothers all the time, but I've got your mother. She's plenty of love for me by herself."

"And when she's at the shop?" his daughter pressed.

"I get by just fine with my work," he shrugged, "Otherwise, I accompany her when I can."

"Daddy," she grabbed his arm, "I know you don't like to talk about your feelings much, but you know I have a willing ear if something's bothering you."

"I know," he kissed her forehead, "You've always had a great compassion for others, Sylvia, and I appreciate it. It mustn't be easy, when your brothers and sister are busy with their own affairs and your father is the biggest source of controversy in all of Ylisse, to come home and smile at your family every so often."

"Not so hard as you might think, daddy," Sylvia winked, "The whole family's pretty good at keeping secrets, and, for my part, I gave up caring what other people think a long time ago. I focus on my business, like mom would."

"Is it wise to be chatting like this amid such a battle?" Virion chattered nervously.

"If it wasn't, do you think your chief strategist would abide it?" Robin stared back. Virion had no reply, so the tactician continued, "Cherche and Gerome will have no problem with these punks, and Morgan and Inigo can handle the inside work for certain. We're only going down to the village to meet back up with them and help pick off stragglers or free remaining prisoners." Virion nodded, then turned and shook his head when no one could see. Robin proceeded, "So, how's your magic coming along, sweetie?"

"Splendidly!" Sylvia announced with a satisfied grin, "Yesterday I got eighteen rabbits out of one hat!"

The tactician chuckled, "Did you ever take my advice and try any practical applications for those parlor tricks of yours?"

Sylvia pouted, sticking up her bottom lip, "'Parlor tricks?' Humph."

"Honey, you know I didn't mean anything by it," he shrugged.

"I think they're plenty practical by themselves," the performer set her hands on her hips and sneered up at her father, "but just so you know, I managed to heal a severed arm back onto a guy in one village."

"That's amazing, Sylvia!" her father's eyes widened.

"Yeah, I know," she winked and folded her arms, "Of course, the whole thing with trying to conjure up more potatoes for them didn't go quite as well... I guess you could say I'm in transition on the more practical magics."

"As long as you're still working at it," he smiled.

"How d'you think Morgie-worgie's doing right about now?" Sylvia progressed, looking back out toward the village.

"No screams yet," Robin noted, "so we're either in very good or very bad shape."

"Helpful," she elbowed him softly.

* * *

"All safe now," Inigo smiled as he unbound the young man's hands. The freed man glanced down at the corpse of the safehouse's Liebenese guard and, with a final scowl, kicked his lifeless skull. "I hardly think there's any need for that," the Ylissean prince quipped, watching the man walk away. Afterward, the prince joined the congregation of other prisoners standing outside the long hut and addressed them, "Now, listen here, I know how much all of you are going to want to strike back at the dastards who rounded you up, but you have to let that go and get back to your families. Let them know you're okay, and then get yourselves somewhere safe. My group will take care of the rest."

"Who are you, kind sir?" asked one of the shorter men among them.

"Me?" the prince thumbed at himself, "I'm Prince Inigo of Ylisse."

"Then it's true," the same man surmised amazedly, "The Ylisseans have returned for us! I always told my friends Ylisse were the best allies Rosanne could ever have, but they never took me seriously. Well, look at this!"

"Aye, Ylisse looks out for those it can protect, but our numbers are still few as of this moment, sir; there's been an attack on our home, too. So, for the moment, please just do as I instruct, as we need to hurry along," Inigo ordered.

"Of course, sir," he and the rest of the captured men began to separate in various directions toward their homes.

"Now," Inigo whispered to himself, "Morgan, I hope you haven't gotten yourself into any trouble… No, she's a marvelous thief, if that's not an oxymoron… I couldn't catch her if I tried, so how could they?"

* * *

Morgan grinned as she shoved the gold bullion into her pocket. She didn't even have to feel bad about stealing from these scumbags, and that made her twice as happy to make off with the spoils of their conflict.

"Hey! What d'you think you're doing?" a guardsman caught her attention as he burst through the door of the storehouse.

"O-Oh," the redheaded thief froze. She gathered herself and shifted her expression, "Oh, well, thank goodness there's a gentleman here. I do so hope you can help me find my way. I'm a trifle lost, you see: I come from the capital."

"Really?" the man's face softened, "A noble of Rosanne, huh? How lovely."

"Oh, you're too kind, sir," she leaned back and puffed out her chest, "I was just beginning to think I needed a man's company."

"Well, I can certainly be your man," the Liebenese gentleman strolled toward her and opened his arms to wrap them around her.

Morgan had to resist the urge to wrinkle her nose as she played into the embrace: he smelled like rotten onions and three pounds of garlic all mixed into a bucket of filth. Luckily, this was where the fun part came in: Morgan loosed the knife from her sleeve and slipped it along the man's jugular, watching his eyes widen, then pushed him off of her, frowning only a little, "In your dreams, mule-breath."

With that last irritation dealt with, Morgan pushed open the storehouse door, leaving the body behind, for now (someone else could be tasked with cleaning that up), and continued on with her mission. In the center of the streets, she spotted an unruly-looking man with mussed up hair deliberating something with a man beside him. The former man was considerably better dressed, outfitted in real armor, and so Morgan took after her target. She ducked into the shadows of an alleyway and followed the line of buildings along the small main thoroughfare, moving only when she was not in line to be observed by her target. As a glance from the unruly man came her way, the redheaded thief made herself scarce against the wall and buried her face into her clothes to avoid showing anything that distinctly identified her as a living being. Finally, after a few minutes of tense withholding of her breathing, she arrived at the other end of the street, and began to work her way up the side of one of the huts, the largest she could see, which explained why the enemy commander was so close to it.

Climbing the simple building wasn't hard; Morgan stepped up onto one windowsill and grabbed at the thatch covering the roof to pull herself up. Fortunately, it remained firm and she swung her legs up acrobatically, ending in a crouched position on the rooftop. From there, she stalked carefully until she was beside her target, as well as a few feet above him. With that in mind, she whipped out her knife again and glanced down.

The unruly-looking man beneath her glanced up as he heard what sounded like a flag flapping in the wind, then tried to shout but was cut off as a blade and a pair of boots, followed by an entire body, fell directly into him, reducing him to a bleeding pile on the ground. Morgan stood and wiped her knife clean on the man's undershirt, looking to each side to find the missing lieutenant who had been standing there only a minute ago.

"Gotcha!" the redhead suddenly heard yelled as a pair of arms wrapped around her own in a full nelson. She probably should have seen that coming. "Did you really think I'd be that stupid?" cackled the real commander, "I hope for your sake the rest of your lot aren't as dumb as you, girly."

"I hope for you sake you're not as dead as the rest of your lot," the thief rebutted.

"Cute," he restrained her to make her wince against the force, "But I didn't really give much of a damn about those fools. I'll just use you as leverage and work my way outta here, that way no one has to get hurt… assuming someone'll actually be willing to save some dirty little thief girl."

"'Dirty little thief girl?'" Morgan repeated distastefully, "I most certainly am not 'dirty!' And furthermore, I think you'll find a lot of people are interested in me. Ever hear of Grandmaster Robin? He's my father."

"Right," the man scoffed, "The daughter of the man what killed the fell dragon is a petty thief. Just keep your mouth shut, fraulein, you're cuter that way."

"She's right, you know," noted a rather familiar man's voice.

"Huh?" the commander was distracted from his hold, "Who—agh!"

Robin folded his arms and tapped his finger on his elbow, "You're holding my daughter, sir. I'd like her back, as I'm sure you can imagine."

The Liebenese man glanced down at Morgan, who smiled coyly in response, then looked back up to the grandmaster, "I… she's your… I…"

"If you don't want to give her back," Robin pulled an old tome out from his oversize pockets, "I could always send twenty thousand volts up your spine and have you dance like a puppet until your flesh sears like a finely-seasoned steak."

The man's eyes widened and he released Morgan, thereafter fleeing and screaming away from the street.

"I could've handled that," Morgan noted, rubbing her wrists as she moved away.

"I have no doubt," her father smiled, "I just figured it would be over faster and less messily that way."

"I mean it," the redhead added, "I totally had that. Don't you dare talk down to me."

"I wasn't," he held up his hands, returning to a more neutral expression, "Anyway, this was just the beginning of our work. We need to begin heading back to Rosanne Keep. Where's your husband?"

"Right here," Inigo announced proudly from an alleyway, now back in his regular clothes, "Everything all right, Morgan, my dear?"

"I'm fine," she dusted her shoulders.

"Such a temper," her father folded his arms, Sylvia giggling beside him.

"Come away, Inigo," Morgan beckoned her husband, "I want to get as much private time with you as I can during this accursed campaign."

"No time for that," Robin halted her, "We have to hurry on to Rosanne Keep, and our ride is just now arriving."

Morgan felt a lock of hair droop onto her scowling face as she heard the beating of wyverns' wings.

* * *

"...and has thus declared war on the whole of Rosanne," Dahlia finished her explanation, clutching the hilt of her blade reflexively, prepared to endure the response.

But it was more tranquil than she had anticipated: "I see. Have there been any formal skirmishes at this point?"

"No, sir," the rose-haired swordswoman answered, "But, of note is the fact that Grandmaster Robin has apparently sided with the sitting Duke of Rosanne."

Nihilus shook his head, his amethyst hair waving, "That's not altogether surprising; Grandmaster Robin fought an entire campaign in Valm at the Duke of Rosanne's behest many years ago. It seems only logical he'd be there to provide assistance again if asked. I just hope Argent knows what he's getting into."

"Sir," Dahlia nodded neutrally.

"Oh, don't be so drab, Dahlia," her commander insisted, "What do you think of the situation? I want your full and honest opinion."

"Well," she stroked her pink locks uncomfortably, "General Argent is a very strong man. Surely even with the greatest strategic mind in the world, the pittance of troops Rosanne possesses cannot hope to stand up against the Liebenese army."

"I wouldn't be so certain," Nihilus shut his eyes, "the Grandmaster is practically a force of nature; the Mad King and the Conqueror were both brought to heel by that same man."

"But one cannot outwit a blade, can they, sir?" the ghost of a smirk tugged at Dahlia's cheek.

The purple-haired man nodded, "Perhaps. In either case, I look forward to seeing a sample of Grandmaster Robin's power firsthand."

"Shall we begin supporting General Argent?" asked his subordinate.

"No," Nihilus declared firmly, "We could be tracked if we shipped supplies out. Argent wanted this war, so let him fight it himself for the time being."

"Yessir," Dahlia bowed to show her obeisance.

"Now, where's that partner of yours?" demanded the man with the amethyst hair.

"Cyrus!" his companion called.

The Storm Blade made a number of stumbling noises from outside the door before shuffling into his commander's office, "Hell's bells, Dee, turn it down a notch. What's so bleeding important?"

"Cyrus, have you been drinking again?" Nihilus folded his hands on his desk.

"Why, you know me so well, master," the green-haired man smiled disingenuously, "What gave it away, the five o'clock shadow or the bloodshot eyes?"

"I've told you this is unacceptable practice," Nihilus scowled.

"And then I burped, you laughed, and we had a bowl'a soup. What of it?" the Storm Blade smirked sidelong.

"Does any sort of propriety ever take hold of you, Cyrus?" his commander asked.

The man with the leaf-green hair laughed and shook his head, "No. And you wouldn't want it to. See, what you call 'propriety,' I call 'nonsense some codger who couldn't take a breath to save his life made up to make other people equally miserable.' It's all a lie spread by noble folk. The only real path to self-realization is to set aside all the second-hand mannerisms and just act how you want. If someone disapproves, then they can fight you for it, and the winner takes all. Easy."

Nihilus massaged his forehead, "Your philosophy is truly a marvel, Cyrus, but it's not my concern right now. I need you to perform a bit of reconnaissance for me."

"Again?" he groaned.

"I need some information on a few situations that I consider to be related," the man with the amethyst hair continued, unperturbed, "Lord Datura tells me he had a prisoner escape not long ago who fits the description of Grandmaster Robin's oldest son."

"Ferox?" Cyrus scoffed, "Great. The only thing uglier than the weather there is the women." He sputtered and clutched his stomach when the woman beside him elbowed him just below the ribs.

"And," their superior continued, giving both of them a scolding glance like a pair of feuding siblings, "see what you can dig up about the one they call 'The Crimson Hood.' Oh, and see if you can spot Robin's wife, Anna, while you're out there."

"A-Anna?" the Storm Blade gritted his teeth, "Red hair? About an inch shorter than me?"

"That's right. Why?" Nihilus cocked an eyebrow.

"N-No reason," the swordsman swallowed, "I think I have an acquaintance to visit while I'm there."

"I'll give you a week; don't tarry," commanded the man with the amethyst hair, following a wave of his hand.

"Milord," obliged the leaf-haired swordsman, turning to leave looking very much like he'd eaten some bad seafood.

As the door clicked shut, Nihilus seated himself on the edge of his bed and glanced up at his remaining subordinate, "Naga, he's frustrating."

"Tell me about it," Dahlia folded her arms. Hearing herself, she frowned and apologized for the impertinence.

"Not at all," her lord replied, "I wish they could all be as malleable and practical as you."

"Milord's compliments humble me," replied the Rose Blade, doing her best to conceal a blush.

"Your actions humble me," came the rather prideful and paternal response from her superior, "I only wish I could be doing more... Sitting on my hands while good men of ours die... It kills me, Dahlia."

"Milord needn't concern himself with the-"

"Enough with the 'milord!'" he growled suddenly, "'Milord' this, 'milord' that... That is a word used to speak to far old men who think their blood earns them obeisance! It is the deeds of a man that ought to grant him such appellation. No man is a lord who is in his heart a squire."

"Eloquently stated," Dahlia bowed her head, "It's that same rhetoric that persuaded me to join you. If you prefer, I will address you in a more familiar way."

"I would prefer it greatly," he acceded.

"Very well," the pink-haired swordswoman cleared her throat, "You shouldn't be concerned about the laymen; there has to be a bottom of the barrel for it to contain anything."

"The very same reasoning that made me despise aristocracy for eternity," spat her superior, "I'm not much placated by having to become a hypocrite. It makes every moment I suffered in Valm seem meaningless."

"I can offer no perfect answers," Dahlia shook her head in commiseration, "Perhaps it would behoove you to rest a bit more."

"Indeed," Nihilus nodded, "a repose to collect my thoughts would likely prove beneficial. Might I ask you to vacate my chambers, please?"

"As you command," his lieutenant accepted.

"And Dahlia," he halted her, prompting her to stare back with the eyes of a reproached pup, "Please don't enter while I'm sleeping again. If I should need something, I will call for it."

"Yes, sir," her cheeks burned at the remark. She turned and hastened out to shield her embarrassment from her master.

Nihilus swigged some water from the glass on his nightstand, then lay down and shut his eyes loosely. He was here on his snow-white linens while honest men who believed in him were dying; this was never his intention. He never believed he would be the one taking afternoon naps while gallant soldiers took to the front lines; he had always meant to be the front lines! How had he gotten this far from his vision? Perhaps that was the reality of a war over its illusion, the tedious brushstrokes that make up the painting of the illustrious commander riding his steed into glorious battle. Now the amethyst-haired man reproached himself again, he knew there was no glory in war, and yet still he dreamed to be that commander. Nihilus rolled to his side; he needed to sleep.

* * *

The orphanage was a damnable wreck. It had been that way since they both stepped inside its doors all those years ago, and no one had once attempted to repair it. Beams supporting the roof rotted with each passing day, doors could barely be cajoled to remain closed, and a persistent draft and impenetrable, dim squalor constantly dominated the sighing wooden walls.

His socks were too tight. Why was that the only thing he could think of? His legs itched, his stomach growled, his fingernails were dirty, his hair had barely been straightened into a semi-presentable mop earlier this morning... None of it had mattered. He hadn't expected it to; this place was going to be his prison for the rest of his life. What had he done to deserve any of this?

"What are you doing outside your room?" hissed the voice of Sister Agnes. The young man tried to scramble up the creaking stairs, but it was already far too late; he was picked up by the collar and dragged down the hallway. "You can't make yourself look presentable for a nice family, and you can't even go to bed when you're asked! It's no wonder no one wants you, you insolent little brat!" The amethyst-haired boy cringed as Sister Agnes dragged him into her room and pulled out her ruler. The boy tried to hold back his tears as she smacked his hands with them.

Of course, this only served to make him look more pathetic as trails of water streamed down from his eyes as he sniffled miserably. "Um sahwy sesser," he blubbered in his distress.

"What?" she growled, "Speak up, use real words, you little mutt!"

"I'm sorry, Sister!" he bawled, his nose now dripping a little.

"You are now," Sister Agnes hissed, standing him up, now get to bed. I don't want to see hide nor hair of you until morning."

"Yes ma'am," he muttered, clutching his stinging, red hands and scurrying off to his room. He dug himself into his small bed carefully on entering the room and wiped his tears onto his pillow.

"You went and pissed off Sister Agnes again, didn't you, Shorts?" mewled the familiar voice of his roommate.

He didn't answer, trying to clean himself up and look less pathetic.

Slowly, he heard the sounds of the old floorboards shifting and blankets moving. Suddenly, a weight pressed itself against his back and a hand lay itself upon his head, caressing his purple locks like stalks of wheat. "You just need to stop fighting it," she mused softly, "You're a good kid. People will like you if you stop sticking out your tongue and running away."

"I don't care what they think," he returned hoarsely, "I don't want to be a part of anyone's family. I just want to have my family back..."

"You know that can't happen," she scolded him gently.

"Either way, I can't take it here! I let myself be taken in when we were little because I was scared; I didn't know what else to do... Now I see we'd have lived much more comfortably on any street in the world than this hellhole," the young man shook his head.

"Stop getting so upset," she chided him, "One day, your spoiled ass is going to have to realize that not everything works out the way you want it to; sometimes you just have to deal with things you don't like." With that, the girl stood as her black hair fell onto her shoulders. A gold necklace shimmered around her neck like a ray of sunshine in that all-consuming darkness; it had been Sister Agnes's gift, so as to make the young lady look more desirable to whomever might want to take her off the aging nun's hands. The girl began to make for the door.

"Are you going somewhere?" her companion whispered, looking up from his pillow.

"...To the pawnbrokers'," she said with an audible waver in her voice, "I'll see what I can get for this stupid necklace."

"Won't that make the old bag angry, too?" the boy brushed some of the amethyst hair out of his face.

"Some things are worth suffering," she reported vaguely, displaying a weak smile beneath a knitted brow, "especially for the right reason..."

"Will we ever get out of here, d'ya think?" he rubbed his eyes; they were red.

His only friend nodded silently, then opened the door, "Good things come to those who wait. Get some sleep, Shorts."

He still felt uncomfortable; the frame of the bed was rotting, too, and made an awful squeal any time he moved and the air was unseasonably cold for the springtime. Somehow, however, his companion's words were enough to placate him. He simply shut his eyes; tomorrow would have to be another day.

* * *

Daybreak came quickly, or, at least, abruptly; the young man found himself shaken awake by his female companion, "Up and at 'em, Shorts! There's someone who wants to see us!"

"What do I care?" he huffed back irritably into the blinding daylight.

"Just come downstairs with me, you nimrod!" she ordered. Begrudgingly, he lifted himself out of the bed to obey, although he continued to protest by refusing to comb his hair. The black-haired young woman rolled her eyes at him and dragged him along until they reached the foot of the stairs, whereupon disbelief stunted any rebellion in the boy's mind.

"You... you're..." he indicated the figure before him vaguely with his finger.

"Knock that off!" Sister Agnes growled, less acerbically than usual, "It's not polite to point. Silly dear still has trouble with his manners."

In any other circumstance, the boy with the amethyst hair would have had to do everything in his power to suppress his nausea at their caretaker's sudden "moos swings," but his current stupor absorbed his cognition. Staring the young man back were the soft Onyx eyes of the Doctor.

The man looked not to have aged a day, save perhaps with a bit more gray to his beard. His posture was friendly but aristocratic, hands tucked neatly behind the back. A pleasant smile was outlined by his lips and a warm glaze was painted over his eyes, as if he wasn't really looking at anything. "Tell me," he requested in a honeyed voice, "What are your names, kids?"

"My name is Cypress," said the young man's black-haired companion. He was sure that was the first time he'd ever heard her say it.

Suddenly, she elbowed her companion in the ribs. "Oh, er, I'm called Nihilus, good sir," managed the amethyst-haired boy in his manliest tone. He stared back into the grown man's eyes and felt at once both unease and a bizarre confidence.

Suddenly, he was looking down. There was blood on his hand and fires twisted in massive columns around him. Embers danced, the ground was lit rock-red against a sapphire starlit sky, and there was a man beneath him. The man groaned with agony, revealing lacerations on his chest that seemed to have been left by the claws of a vicious animal. The boy, for what reason he could not tell, was not panicked or surprised by this sight. He stared at the scarlet streaks of blood on his hand as they reflected the gold of the twisting fires and felt an odd sense of vindication. His breathing felt insanely clear, despite the flood of smoke and ash descending over the venue, he felt exhilaration as he saw horror reflected in this dying man's eyes. He had... won.

"Well, Nihilus, Cypress," said the tall, old Doctor, breaking the boy out of his reverie, but appearing somehow aware of it, "How would you feel about coming to live with me?"

Cypress cocked an eyebrow at her young ward, "What do you make of it, Shorts?"

He was distracted, seeing his friend's face clearly for the first time, "What happened to your eye?"

She stroked a dark bang in front of it, cursing herself for not being more careful, "Nothing, focus."

He couldn't; he saw sweat and dirt clinging to her forehead and rips along the side of her dress, and he noticed her necklace was gone. Resolutely, the

amethyst-haired boy lifted his head to the Doctor, "I think... I think we'd like that very much."

* * *

"So, any luck?" Anna impressed on the harbormaster with her sweetest smile.

"Like I says," he grunted back, "the boat you mentioned ain't here, and I don't have any for sale or captains willing to rent themselves out."

"Did you give them an idea of what they'd he working for? I'm a very wealthy gal, I can make any trip worth the while."

"Sorry, nothing doing, lady," he scoffed, "Why don't you go find yourself a widow's peak and a rocking chair and just wait it out?"

The redhead bore her teeth and shouted, "What?! Just what are you saying?!"

"I'm sayin' I ain't got time for old ladies what think they have a right to go cruisin' over the ocean whenever they feels like it!" barked the harbormaster.

"'Old ladies?!'" Anna rolled up her sleeve.

"Mom, this joker isn't worth it," Leo put his hand in front of his mother, "Why don't you try tellin' that to my face instead, ya blighter?"

The harbormaster pinched the bridge of his nose, "I ain't got anyway for you lot to get overseas, that's all there is to it!"

Anna buried her head and demanded coldly, "C'mon, Leo. We'll just have to find somewhere else."

"M-Mom?" her son watched her, "are you...? Hey, don't cry, look..."

"I want to know if my husband is still alive, do you get that?!" she screamed at the harbormaster. The merchant found it hard to contain herself and felt her face flush as she sobbed quietly.

The harbormaster's face sank into a sympathetic frown, "Aye, I get it, but I can't just make boats available outta thin air, y'see?"

Anna rubbed her eyes, "I-I know, I'm sorry... I just kinda... lost it there. Sorry." Leo knit his brow beneath his auburn hair as he watched her finish this episode.

"Mayhap you can't, sir," chuckled a familiar and yet altogether haughty voice, "but I think you'll find I'm more than skilled in the art of making something from nothing."

Leo lifted his head first, "Steve?"

" _Ben trovato_ , brother," the silver-haired man nodded with a smile. Leo rolled his eyes.

"Oh, Steve, sweetheart!" Anna wrapped her arms around her eldest child in a heartbeat, fixating her grip.

"An absolute pleasure to see you again, mother," his eyes glimmered as he returned the embrace fondly, "Quite fortunate that I found you here."

"Mama was so worried about her big boy," the redhead cooed, squeezing him tighter.

"Er, quite," he murmured, a trifle distressed, "I really do wish you wouldn't insist on referring to me by such childish musings..."

"Mom's just happy to see you again, hon," she relayed, the maturity returning to her voice, "Don't tell me you didn't miss me at all."

"No, naturally, I wasn't entirely without fear for... for..." Steven's lip wobbled, "Oh, mom! I missed you so much! I thought you might've been dead!"

"Aw," Anna cuddled her sobbing son, "It's okay, baby doll, mommy's okay. Everything's all right."

Leo scratched the back of his neck as the harbormaster stared, "Cheese and rice, you two are so damn embarrassing."

"Uhm, so," Steven cleared his throat, slowly removing himself from his mother's arms, "I don't desire to keep you waiting; I can provide us transport to Valm."

"Wait," his younger brother demanded, "What the hell are you even doing in Regna Ferox to begin with? And how'd'ya know we'd be here?"

"The latter half of that question is the easiest to answer," remarked the silver-haired man, "I was staying with Khan Lon'qu, and his border patrols alerted me to your arrival. I had a rough idea of what your next move would be, knowing mother. My timing, of course, was also fortuitous. As for why I'm here, well, I can tell you all about that on the boat."

"I'll tell you what I told yer mum, kid: there ain't no boats leaving this harbor," grunted the harbormaster.

"Indeed," Steven smiled, "I intend to fix that." Brushing brusquely past the harbormaster, the silver-haired man ascended the gangplank of a nearby Feroxi ship and found its captain. Anna and Leo followed him up.

"I'm sorry, but my runs are done for the month. I can take you aboard in three weeks, but this ship isn't leaving this port before then," the captain shook his head.

"That's a dreadful shame," Steven shook his head ruefully, "I know my friend the West-Khan would be quite grateful if you were to lend us the use of your transport."

"Right," scoffed the captain, "That west-khan can direct my ship just as soon as he's done kissing the fattest part of my arse."

"Fairly, if crudely, put, my good man," Steven withdrew a pair of spectacles from his pocket.

"Uh-oh," Leo muttered subconsciously, recognizing the move.

"Your vessel is called _Bartre's Ardor_ , correct?" the silver-haired man didn't look up.

"Yes," answered the captain tenuously.

"Isn't it true that you have previously hidden and smuggled undeclared quantities of valuable Feroxi ales aboard this ship?" Steven shifted his glasses, letting them slide menacingly down the bridge of his nose to accentuate his glaring eyes.

"Er, maybe," a drop of sweat appeared on the captain's forehead, "So what?"

Steven clicked his teeth, "Well, of course, it's no business of mine, good sir, but according to Article Eighteen, Section 1203 of the Feroxi Crimes Code, let me see... Ahem, 'The act or attempt to smuggle, or by any means conceal or conspire to conceal the sale of international goods exported via sea trade, especially those transactions which involve the sale of alcohol, particularly in large quantities, shall be considered a capital offense against these, our confederated Feroxi Khanates.'" The silver-haired man tapped a finger on his forehead, "It would he an awful shame if I were to stumble upon some illegally withheld liquor aboard this vessel... that would mean you'd have to be executed. Rather an unfittingly gruesome fate for a good man such as you, my good sir, but the law is the law..."

"All right, all right!" sweat began to line the captain's collar, "You've made your point, you scoundrel. I'll make ready to leave immediately."

"Excellent," Steven clapped his hands together, "very kind of you."

"S-Scary..." muttered Leo, swallowing.

"Haha!" Anna draped an arm around her eldest son, "You take after your mom well, kiddo."

"I strive to live up to my parents' magnanimous legacy," he bowed politely, "Would you care for something to eat, mother? You look positively famished."

"I'm starving," Leo asserted, staring at his brother.

"Oh, of course. We'll all have a little bit to eat, eh?" he smiled back.

The captain grunted furiously as he stormed into his quarters.


	15. Dulce et Decorum Est

"Now strike!" commanded the Ylissean princess. Stahl did as he was ordered and sent the bewildered mercenary spiraling to the ground. Sully rode up behind her husband and smashed through another hapless vanguard with her lance. Kjelle rounded out her family's contribution by swiping down a third man with her axe.

"Bloody hell!" cried a far-off voice, "We're under attack!" They had taken notice. The clatter of alarm bells began to fill the air.

"Legacy Shepherds!" the young lord raised her rapier commandingly, "To arms!"

Of course, this call was mostly facetious and for show, as the Shepherds had already concocted a plan. As mercenaries grit their teeth and emerged from the mostly abandoned and withered city streets in rainbows of mixed clothing, they bore down on Lucina and her guards. Then they were scattered as a massive fireball scorched the ground before them. "Such irascibility makes for a target altogether almost too susceptible to subterfuge for such a maneuver to even provide significant intrigue," Miriel adjusted her glasses on a nearby hillside.

The real fighting began after the mercenaries were forced to break rank, spreading themselves along the streets of the small town to combat the advancing Shepherds. "Back off, ya tin-booted dandy!" jeered the leader of a squadron of the ragtag forces as Frederick stared at them from across the street. "I faced down armies all by meself, and Ylisse thinks it can scare me be sendin' some gray-haired jackanape at me?"

"I assure you," Frederick leered from atop his mount, "You might have faced entire armies, but you have not faced me."

The mercenary rolled his eyes and commanded his men to attack the aging great knight. The first to approach Frederick leapt into the air and was cut down immediately. A second took a similar approach and was impaled on Frederick's spear. When a third tried to flank Ylisse's knight captain, he was met with the butt of the lance in his face, shattering the cartilage in his nose. Rearing his horse, Frederick charged the remaining two foes and swept out their legs with his lance, following up with a pair of consecutive stabs to their chests. Suddenly, the great knight's eyes narrowed as an archer trained his bow toward the knight's head from atop a nearby house. No sooner had Frederick begun to sweat, however, than was the archer swatted off the house like a pebble from the road.

"Got 'im," giggled Sumia with a faint salute to her husband, caressing her pegasus's neck.

Meanwhile, at the other end of town, Maribelle stared down several assailants from her own high horse, holding onto her tome carefully. "Lookit this," laughed one foe, "Did those Ylissean cowards pull you right outta court, sweet cheeks?"

"Heavens no," she replied, "I emerged of my own volition to extirpate rapscallions such as yourselves." A chorus of laughs followed the reply.

"Hey, why don't'cha just put down the stupid books and I'll show you how we rural folk have a good time, eh, beautiful?" the man opposite her jeered, gesturing to his comrades.

"I'd call you meaningless filth," Maribelle replied with a disaffected air, "but that would besmirch the name of benign and simple filth."

This irked the mercenaries, and they collapsed into feral shouts and swears as they dashed toward Maribelle. Three were sent flying by a bolt of electricity Maribelle fired forth from her tome. Three more were tackled and quickly disposed of by the hidden Gaius. The thief held the last mercenary by the throat, "Makin' comments like that to a guy's wife... you should be ashamed."

"I... uh, begging your forgiveness, sir," the man smiled weakly.

"Well," Gaius scratched his chin, I would, but you made the chocolate in my pocket melt, so..." The man fell over in a pool of his own blood.

"Mercy, Gaius, must you be so dramatic?" his wife scolded, her horse sidling up.

"You dragged me into this, Twinkles. At the very least, I'm gonna get to enjoy it," he folded his arms.

"Uh, hey guys," Kellam stepped out from an alleyway, his armor soaked in blood, "How's it going? Is Miriel all right?"

"Oh," Gaius jumped, "Crivens, what happened to you, uh... Whats-your-face...?"

"Kellam," he sighed, "uh, I did a little infiltration."

"Well, uh, good goin'... whoever you are. Anywho, yeah, Specs is a-ok," the thief answered.

Down the middle road, another pegasus was soaring, carrying with it its dauntless rider and her excitable husband. The pegasus was tracked low along the ground and Gregor set himself up, seeing the cloud of enemy forces ahead. "Heh! This remind Gregor of the olding days!"

"You've done this before?" Cordelia tried to focus on the road.

"Gregor jump off many things at high speed when he was fall fowl," the aging mercenary answered.

"Do you mean 'spring chicken?'" asked the pegasus rider. Too late, he had already leapt off and started swinging his blade, knocking scores of men to the side and the ground. Cordelia swooped up into the air, then lent her own lance to the fighting, doubling up on the number of rogues being tossed around.

Lucina charged forward while Stahl and Sully rode a few paces ahead, storming toward the enemy command tent; Kjelle had been left to cover the rear, being a bit too slow by herself. "Cordelia!" shouted the princess as she approached the pegasus knight sweeping mobs of foes away.

"On it!" she knew the command and brought her mount to heel, pulling it back out of the pile and setting its back hooves on the ground.

"Take your respective flanks!" Lucina commanded her two cavaliers, "I'll give the signal when it's done!" Stahl and Sully nodded in affirmation, and with that, Lucina hastened ahead and hopped onto the back of Cordelia's pegasus. Balancing carefully on her heels, she felt herself lifted over the scrum of troops in the middle and heard the footsteps of her reserve troops marching in from behind. With a call from Cordelia, the princess returned her attention to the front and ran into a leap off the pegasus's front, landing into a roll on the hard brick that was much more difficult than she had imagined. Nonetheless, she continued and waved off the pegasus knight, storming the command tent unopposed.

The commander inside was no one of significance, that much was immediately clear by his dress, which looked like any of the other mercenaries' with an officer's jacket hastily draped overtop. "For your crimes against Ylisse, I sentence you to death!" shouted Lucina, raising her sword. The enemy commander attempted to prepare a counter, but the rapier slipped between his ribs before he could utter a word. As he sank to his knees, Lucina took a few withered battle plans from the small table inside the tent, and then took the candle that adorned that same table and put the tent to the flame. She stepped out and watched as, after a few minutes of gaining momentum, the fire began to consume the entire tent and the flag at its top was engulfed. There went the signal. This fight was already over.

* * *

Robin glared at the waves of tents and infantry scattered about before Rosanne Keep. Fires dotted the sea of unreadable faces like the white caps on waves, only that these were orange and burned and flickered, as if the fires themselves were absorbed with hatred, belching black smoke into the air through which Robin's small cadre flew. After their hours of listless flight, Robin shook himself awake as Cherche and Minerva descended onto the keep's roof, followed shortly by Gerome. The aging tactician sighed to himself; there was only one way this day was going to end.

"So," Robin began by clearing his throat as the group descended the last flight of stairs and entered the throne room, "In total, how many troops would you wager you have left, Virion?"

"Perhaps four hundred, though some may have deserted in my absence," the duke of Rosanne sighed with a grimace.

"Why didn't they shoot us on approach?" asked Morgan, suddenly butting between the duke and her father, "They seem to have ample supplies of bows and arrows."

"Barbarous as they are," answered Virion with more than a hint of resentment, "the Liebenese are not so callous nor so craven as to strike before a formal declaration of war has been made."

"They'll likely be receiving that declaration soon, given that we're here," added Cherche.

"Then let's get a plan together," commanded their tactician. The group nodded in agreement... with the exception of Morgan, who flipped her hair and folded her arms. "Virion, you're the center of morale for this battle; if you're defeated, the enemy wins no matter what. As a result, I'd like you to remain in the back of the line, where you can be protected."

"I do not disagree," mumbled the duke, "but... I fear the men will call me craven for standing behind them like so many shields."

"They can answer to me if it's a problem," Robin clenched his fist, "and anyway, Rosanne is a dukedom, not a democracy; sometimes the sovereign has to lay down the law, and his subjects have to honor his decision."

"Even so," announced Gerome, suddenly interested, "I hope you wouldn't have any reservations about my taking up the attack."

"Not at all," the Grandmaster replied, "In fact, I was going to encourage it, however, if that's to be done, we need to be intelligent about your approach, getting rid of any archers in your path and so forth."

"The Liebenese archers are well entrenched... it would take someone of considerable speed and skill to break through their ranks to eliminate the bowmen..." admitted Virion with a frown.

"Please, stop, you flatter me," chuckled Inigo as he sauntered forward.

"You?" Robin and his youngest daughter said in unison.

"Quite," he returned a bright smile, "I am a prince, after all. I have to start making a good name for my house in such trying times; it simply wouldn't do to have the only member of Ylissean gentry present sit back and do nothing for his allies. And besides, I've heard that the women of Rosanne are..." Inigo made a strange gesture that concluded with him pulling his fingertips along his lips to kiss them, "Imagine the songs they'll write about me!"

"I'll give you a song," Morgan cracked her knuckles, "it's called 'The Requiem of Morgan's fists in A-Major.'"

"Hardly the proper key for a requiem, dear," Inigo chuckled.

"I can certainly bring it down a few octaves," answered Robin. Inigo swallowed hard.

"Father, please," Morgan hushed him.

"'Twas but a jape, my darling," Inigo seized his wife's hand, meeting some initial resistance that quickly faded.

"Don't go getting yourself hurt," Morgan commanded, her eyes shining into his.

"I wouldn't dream of if," he replied, "I'll play the hero to these helpless Rosanniens and their prince, and let them take over from there."

Robin nodded succinctly, "Then I suppose we have our plan. We'll put half the troops around Virion and half forward to support Inigo's advance, after which Gerome and Cherche can move up."

"What about you and me, daddy?" wondered Sylvia, who had been busying herself with a petulant eyelash.

"You stick to your healing, dear," he said with an infatuated smile, "and your father will provide support for the defensive group. As will your sister, if she finds that amenable."

"As you command, father," Morgan bowed her head dully, following her husband away. Robin watched her leave and tightened his cloak, drawing his sword from its scabbard.

"Don't take it personally, daddy," Sylvia mused, "it's probably just-"

"I know what it is," he answered gruffly, leaving with Virion to analyze a map.

Sylvia's head ducked into her cloak and a frown tugged at her cheek as she heaved a sigh.

* * *

"Watch out!" grunted Morgan, swinging her blade parallel to her husband's back. He swiveled around with a grimace, kicking away an advancing myrmidon.

"Never fear," he flashed a smile past the unkempt locks of his hair, "Inigo always triumphs, dear." The Ylissean prince's eyes widened as he was shoved to the ground by a knight. Morgan rolled her eyes, then rolled over her spouse to slide a boot into the knight's face.

"Hands off!" she yelled, throwing a stab toward a gap in the foe's armor. He endured the hit and shoved her away, throwing drops of blood into the air and onto the young thief's face. With a growl, the knight returned a punch to Morgan's face, which drew blood as the cartilage in her nose cracked audibly. A moment later, the knight fell to the ground with the Ylissean prince holding his ankle.

"Lay a hand on my wife, will you?" Inigo gritted his teeth, positioning himself on top of the knight's back and wrapping his elbow around the enemy's neck, squeezing with all his force. Morgan blinked and wiped under her nose, then looked down at the scene and vindictively kicked the suffocating knight in the face. As more troops advanced on their position, Morgan ducked under jabs from lances and sidestepped swipes from swords and axes until Inigo finished and stood to take swings at a few of the scattered aggressors, who fell with considerable ease.

All at once, the tide of Liebenese attackers was stemmed by a wall of flames, after which Robin stepped forward and slapped his tome shut. "Morgan," he offered her his hand, "are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she nodded brusquely, wiping the blood from her nose onto her hand and then onto her pants.

"Did you bring down the archers, Inigo?" Robin glanced over his daughter's shoulder.

"Yes, they're decommissioned," the prince panted, "I'm okay, too, by the way."

"Come with me," he instructed, leading them through the fray of clashing iron back behind the Rosannien lines. Virion, Cherche, and Gerome awaited them, each grasping their weapons nervously. Cherche and Gerome's mounts screeched impatiently and adjusted their wings incessantly. "Gerome, Cherche, the archers are down. Now or never."

"Right," Cherche saluted, giving a pull on Minerva's reins. With a ferocious growl, they took to the air, Gerome shortly behind them.

"Sylvia," Robin spied his eldest daughter poking her head out, "your sister and her husband need a little fixing up."

"Done and done," she nodded, whipping out her staff. Morgan and Inigo sidled over to her.

"How are we looking?" demanded the Grandmaster, adjusting his cloak and loosening his wrists.

"So far, your plan has worked remarkably well, good Sir Robin," the duke of Rosanne smiled briefly, "The Liebenese cavalry and armor cannot penetrate our magically-armed lines, supplemented by the sagesse of our swordsmen, of course."

"By the sound of your voice, I'd think you had expected me to fail," admitted Robin with a chuckle.

"Not at all," Virion shook his head, "I am only impressed by our own efficacy. I thought I would most certainly lose my home to these dastards."

"We haven't won yet, vôtre majestie," Robin unsheathed his sword, "keep your eyes open and one hand on that bow."

"Of course," the archest of archers concurred. Wings beat and wyvern screeches, followed by the shouts of flying Liebenese, sounded over the field as Cherche and Gerome's axes flung advancing cavalry from their steeds.

"What's the damage, Morgie-Worgie?" Sylvia held her staff to her sister's face.

"Just a broken nose, and please don't call me that," Morgan's face fell in embarrassment.

"I can't help it," she shrugged, "you'll always be my little sister. Now, hold still, I gotta pop your nose back into place."

"You can't fix that with your magic?" the redheaded thief covered her nose protectively, then winced when she touched it accidentally.

"Unless you want it to be tilted at a fifty degree angle for the rest of your life," Sylvia shook her head.

"Fine," Morgan sighed, lowering her hands, "be gentle."

"Hold still," the performer repeated, supporting the back of her sister's head with one hand. Gradually, she shifted the cartilage as it made an unsettling crackle, navigating the circumference of her sister's lip as a guide until the nose was set back into place. Morgan gritted her teeth, but a single, silent tear escaped her eye. "Keep it in place," Sylvia instructed, withdrawing her hand carefully and letting Morgan take over. She concentrated as her staff began to light up.

"To think, my father actually wasted time negotiating with you worthless cretins," Gerome spat, gutting a Liebense pikeman with a broad stroke of his axe.

"Gerome, focus!" whistled his mother. The marquess of Rosanne nodded reluctantly. The wyvern beneath him twisted into a roll as he surprised a cloud of Liebenese knights, swinging his axe to and fro, denting their armor and tossing them about like ragdolls despite their weight. "Although, in fairness," Cherche giggled in a more charming tone as she knocked a cavalier from his horse with a thrown axe, "they really aren't much of a threat, are they? Just look at these weaklings." Gerome smiled at his mother and swept the legs out from under another knight.

"Something isn't right," Robin eventually declared, stroking his chin and beard.

"How do you mean?" answered Virion, loosing an arrow into the crowd.

"General Argent told us he had no intention of negotiating; he planned this fight from the start. So why are his troops so poorly equipped for this assault?" an unsettled frown creased the Grandmaster's brow.

"Well, the Liebenese have a habit of underestimating Rossanien resolve," Virion chuckled assuredly, firing off another shot.

Robin shook his head, "Perhaps, but... something doesn't feel right."

"Those are some nasty gashes, lover-boy," Sylvia giggled at her brother-in-law as he bared his chest for her.

"Do try not to stare too long, darling," he quipped back beneath a brow drenched in sweat.

"No problem, believe me," she resisted, "It's just a couple'a cuts. Won't take but a minute."

Morgan was still gingerly applying pressure to her nose, "Please try to be more careful, Inigo."

"Can't make an omelette without breaking a few eggs," the Ylissean prince smiled brightly at his wife.

"Just don't go getting yourself scrambled," Morgan stroked his hair gently and placed a kiss of his forehead.

"Uh... over-easy," Sylvia blurted out, "...I couldn't think of a joke."

"Morgan, I need you for a moment," she heard her father call out. The thief sighed, rubbed her husband's shoulder, and nodded at her sister before responding to the call.

"Yes, father?" she strolled up, inspecting her fingernails.

"Do you think you could do a little reconnaissance?" he was stroking his beard again.

"Usually you scope out the enemy before you fight 'em," came the ironic reply.

"Something about their formation is making me suspicious," the Grandmaster elaborated.

"Fine, fine," Morgan whipped out her sword, "What am I looking for?"

"MAGE!"

"Okay, I'm right here, geez," Morgan pretended to massage her ear.

"That wasn't me," her father strode forward into the line protecting them, peering over the shoulders of the Rosanne infantry. He skipped backward immediately, at the great displeasure of his aging knees, as an explosion of heat scattered the line in front of him.

"What was that?" Morgan jumped, taking a few steps forward mostly on instinct.

Robin's eyes darted to the shower of scarlet embers as a cloaked countenance slowly formed a shadow on the outer edge of the small crater that had been torn in the ground. He calculated and recognized the intent when a pair of purposeful eyes shifted toward Morgan, who was absorbed with the flood of sparking flame that was only now settling to the ground. The Grandmaster gritted his teeth and leapt in front of his daughter, who reared her head suddenly at the maneuver. She opened her mouth to speak, but she was stopped dead by a mouthful of heat, the sensation of having swallowed a pound of desert sand. Winds sent ripples through her hair and she felt a twitch in her legs that told her to duck her head, which she obeyed, only to have her ears assaulted with a deafening shout. The noise made Morgan shut her eyes tightly, like an infant exposed to a thunderstorm, but when she opened them, they widened and showed her her collapsed father, the front of his clothing, and then some, scorched beyond recognition.

Morgan didn't utter a word. Or maybe she couldn't. She didn't feel the sweat on jer forehead, or the stinging pain in her nose. She didn't hear her sister scream in horror or her husband leap to his feet. She didn't see the two wyvern riders halt in midair to glance back with horrified gasps. She didn't see Virion lodge an arrow into the mage's eye. She didn't hear the fervent shouts of the Rosannien corps, who redoubled their resolve and pushed back the enemy. She didn't feel Inigo's hand land on her back as he gazed down with melancholy. She didn't see the iridescent glitter of her sister's tears of despair. She didn't hear the hoarseness of Gerome's throat as he shouted, growled gutturally and cleanly removed the intestines from several Liebenese. She saw her father's eyes squint, and then shut.

* * *

Chrom squinted at the daylight struggling its way between the bars, casting the tiniest fragment of a shadow onto the floor. This was his reward "for good behavior." The worst part was that that sanctimonious bastard Nihilus probably thought that he really was doing him a service. The exalt balled his fist as he felt the aggression surge through him again, then sighed and let it dissipate; it wouldn't do him any good to get riled up in a situation like this.

The blue-haired lord glanced down at his sleeping wife, huddled in the corner of the cell, her dirtied face hidden from view by the nigh-interminable darkness. With a deep breath, Chrom clutched his forehead and sat down on the floor of the cell, determined to come up with a plan if it killed him.

"Are you all right, Chrom?" he heard the small voice of his wife.

The exalt twitched and craned his neck around to confirm that it had been his wife speaking, "Oh, I thought you were asleep."

"Hardly," she smiled weakly, "you know I can't rest without the firm grasp of my husband, the exalt, the finest warrior in all the realm, to protect me."

"Ah," he rubbed his neck, blushing, "I'm sorry, Olivia..."

"What are you thinking about?" she detected from his posture.

"About..." Chrom sighed ruefully to himself, "About how much I wish Robin were here. We had our ideological differences, sure, but when push came to shove, he always told me what he thought I needed to know, and he had a plan for everything..."

"He was a man of much wisdom," Olivia agreed, "but he never failed to encourage, either. What do you think he'd say to you, sitting and looking forlorn like that?"

Chrom smiled, "He'd probably say, 'Are you still sitting there? Come on, I have an idea!' ...And then he'd make some off-color remark about 'tipping the scales...'"

His wife chuckled, "I think so too. So, why don't we try to find the solution for ourselves?"

"You're not frightened of what they'll do to us if we try to escape?" Chrom had now turned all the way around to face his queen.

"I... don't purport to be the most courageous woman around, believe me; I'm still frightened by so much every single day... But I've realized, in my years as the exalt's wife... I've had to do some growing up. It's not about what I fear, or, at least, my own fears seem trivial now. What right do I have to be embarrassed about my dancing when some poor woman out there doesn't have enough money to feed her children tonight? Those are the things I keep in mind, the important things, and then I set my anxieties aside," Olivia proclaimed with shaking in her voice.

Chrom absorbed the entire statement with interest, then bowed humbly and moved over to embrace his wife, "How is it that Naga blessed me so greatly as to have you as my wife, Olivia?"

She blushed hotly as she embedded her cheek into his arm, "...It's still sort of embarrassing to hear you say things like that out loud."

"Sorry," he chuckled good-naturedly, ending the embrace, "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to keep looking for a way out."

"You're all right," Chrom thought he heard from somewhere far away.

* * *

"You make for quite the captain, Steve," his mother lauded, inspecting the ship's wheel.

"I've had my hand in a few mutinies," he smiled, pleased with himself, "It was either get my sea legs or drown."

"Leo, why don't you come up here with us?" Anna called through the grating to the captain's quarters, where the ship's own captain rested in preparation for the night shift, "You could enjoy some of this fresh salt air...!"

"No thanks," he replied curtly.

"Aw, why, hon?" his mother pouted, putting her finger to her chin, "you don't want to spend time with your mom and big brother?"

"No... well, I don't mind spending time with you, anyway, but..." the young assassin hesitated, "I just don't do boats, okay? I have a thing about boats."

Anna glanced at her eldest son, who shrugged. "All right, just get some rest and try not to get seasick," she relented.

"Working on it," the assassin said mostly to himself, discreetly removing the lis from one of the captain's "private barrels" and scooping out a bit of succor in a tankard he found on a nearby shelf.

"Well," Steven breathed aloud. Anna knew this meant he was in a pleasant mood; he always started with "Well," preceded by a big inhale when he had something on his mind that contented him, "now that we have a moment, how has the store been doing, mother?"

"Spec-tac-u-fan-tabulous," Anna grinned broadly to reassure her son.

"Quite," he smiled back. That was another of his habits, Anna recalled: he always said "quite" as a polite substitute for "I have nothing to say to that."

"Of course, I certainly appreciate all the advertising you do for me, honey," Anna added on.

"Advertising, moi?" the silver-haired man feigned indignation, "Never. I simply relay to my... wealthier associates a location from which they may find an ample value for goods they intend to purchase that is worthy of their deep pockets."

The redheaded merchant nodded appreciatively, "Good enough for me. How's, uh... whatever it is you do?"

"'Political management' describes it accurately, I believe," he returned.

"Right," his mother snapped her fingers, "how's that going?"

"Oh... ça va," Steven glanced out at the rolling wake, "An insurrection here, perjury charges there, so on, so forth, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseam."

"Did you ever manage to find a young lady for yourself?" Anna folded her arms to settle in.

Steven mostly brushed off the question with a scoffing laugh, "If I could ever find the time, I'm sure I'd be courting plenty of ladies of which you might disapprove, but I'm far too engrossed in my work."

His mother mulled over the answer and nodded comprehensively, "I see... it's okay, Steve, you don't have to be coy with me; your mom's a pretty progressive woman. What's his name?"

The silver-haired man let go of the wheel and stared forward before turning sharply to his mother, "Mother, what ARE you insinuating?"

"Steven, I'm your mother," the merchant replied, "I'll love you no matter what, I promise."

"Th-That's not...!" Steven blushed intensely, "I'm not...! I've just been busy!"

"Methinks the boy doth protest too much," Anna winked at her son.

"Now look here...!" Steven declared angrily, pointing his flustered finger. A rolled up parchment suddenly loosed itself from his sleeve, "Ah..."

His mother nabbed it before he could say anything. She unfolded the document and glanced cursorily at the writing.

"Mother, please, that's a private correspondence..." Steven rubbed his neck, putting one hand back on the wheel, "Damn me, this is what I get for being indiscreet..."

"'M. de la Mont awaits the results of his election with great vivacity of spirit, and says we have you to thank, Monsieur Steven. He lauds your performance and commends your formidable character. I, too, cannot hope but to confess my content with your gentle nature. The children, they already sorely miss your presence and, at times, I, too, find myself pining. I know you have many duties, Monsieur Steven, but should you have time to visit M. de la Mont's office, I assure you, your presence would be warmly welcomed. -Votre Cherie, Sophie," Anna read aloud, "What am I hearing, here? Who names their son Sophie?"

"It's a woman, for goodness's sake, mother," Steven, blushing pure crimson, ripped the note from his mother's hand, "I just had a little chat over some coffee with the daughter of one of my employers..."

Anna's eyes widened, "Oh, so you are keeping your options open, huh? Steve, you sly dog! I hardly knew you had it in ya!"

The silver-haired man's head sank as he tried to cover his face, "I... need a moment. Why don't you try your hand at the wheel?"

The redheaded merchant stared at her eldest son as he hastened to the bow, then shrugged and put her hand's along the wheel, whistling an old sea shanty to herself.

* * *

The field was darkened by an omnipresent smear of blood and consumed entirely be the stench of iron. Crows called mockingly into the fading daylight as the remainder of the sun, flickering orange like a weak candlelight, baked the smell of death into the ground.

So this was victory.

Morgan bit her thumbnail, staring hard at the flap to the medical tent. Virion, Cherche, Gerome, and Inigo had all already given her their condolences. There was only one person who had yet to deliver her opinion, and hers was the only one that mattered, as she was the one pacing back and forth behind that thin wall of cloth. The pacing had driven Morgan crazy. Half an hour ago, Morgan had sworn that if her sister took so much as another three steps without emerging, she would tear down the whole tent and scream.

But she hadn't, of course. The redheaded thief stood and watched the tent like it was a mile-high wall made of an utterly impregnable alloy as her sister walked another one-hundred-eighty-nine steps. She counted, as if that data could help her glean something.

The young thief's eyes threatened to glaze over for the sheer concentration she had been exhibiting for the past... two hours? Three? Had it been light when they started? But, suddenly, a figure emerged. Sylvia parted the tent flaps at last. She glanced up at her sister and parted her lips slowly.

Morgan braced herself.


	16. We Talk Together

"He'll live." Morgan's face deflated like a punctured balloon, the curls of her long hair rolling down her face as her gaze fell to the ground. "But Morgan?" Sylvia pursued. Morgan lifted her head carefully: this was Sylvia's real voice. This voice did not have a lyrical undertone, nor did it imply a wink, and it contained none of the felicitous quality that allowed every sentence to end in a smile. This wasn't the voice of a charming actress beguiling the crowd or an amiable merchant swaying her clientele with a sultry move of her brow, this was Sylvia's own voice, an alto that seemed more pessimistic for having lost its casual vibrance, and that communicated reproach and concern in the same word. This voice hurt to hear, and it was with it that Sylvia delivered her remark, "Whatever's really going on with you and daddy... I want to know what it is. He's in pain, and I can't stand watching the two of you fight anymore."

Morgan wanted so badly to deliver an acerbic reply, a way to decry her father for his foolishness; if he only would have warned her, she could have easily dodged the flames, but he had to be conceited and play the hero to his defenseless daughter, but words failed the young thief as she watched her sister's sapphire eyes melt into tears, "Sylvia... It's not my fault, I swear."

"I could give an owl's feathers whose fault it is," she intended to yell, but the performer's voice remained meek, "Even I can only put on a smile for so long. I'm... I'm tired of having to pretend nothing's wrong, that I don't hate every moment of watching you two be so diametrically opposed; you used to be closer to daddy than anyone... I want my daddy and his little Morgie-Worgie back."

"It boils down to a difference of opinion," Morgan prevaricated while folding her arms, hoping she could swiftly tie up the conversation.

"On what?" her sister persisted, "Does it have something to do with your becoming a thief?"

Morgan, startled by the saliency of the guess, widened her eyes, then lowered them, "You might say that, yes."

"What happened, Morgie?" a note of sympathy returned to Sylvia's voice, "Didn't you always want to be a tactician? Didn't you spend years studying all of daddy's books? You have to tell me what changed."

"I did," the thief replied truthfully, "but... Well, you can choose to believe me or not, but it was father who discouraged that dream, in the end."

Sylvia abandoned wiping her eyes momentarily, "Daddy didn't want you to be a tactician?"

"I think it was his way of protesting Inigo," Morgan folded her arms and pulled out the corner of her mouth like she was biting the inside of her cheek, "He asked me if I would be willing to serve as his tactician should Ylisse come to war again with him as the ruler in the same way that father came to Ylisse's rescue decades ago. I thought father would be practically springing with joy at the news, but instead he got this faraway, narrow look in his eyes, like I'd just stabbed him. It took him almost five minutes before he said anything to me, and when he did, he just kind of shut his eyes and said, 'I have to veto that suggestion.'"

Sylvia stepped back gradually when she heard the words and then tilted her head to each side, like she was rolling the words around or chewing on them, then spit out a breath, "It doesn't make sense... daddy's never told any of us we couldn't do something we wanted to... er, that wasn't dangerous or frivolous, of course."

"If you're looking for an explanation, you'll have to get it straight from the horse's mouth," Morgan concluded, her posture reaffirming her confidence.

"He must have some reason," Sylvia tapped a finger on her chin, "He knew you were going to marry Inigo regardless... Maybe you didn't give him enough of a chance to explain himself."

"He didn't try to explain anything more," her sister rebutted, "All he told me was, 'Becoming a tactician... isn't in your future.' That's it, that's all of it. If he had something more to say, he's had years to say it already."

The young performer stroked a curly bang out of her face and stared at the tent flap, murmuring to herself, "Oh, daddy... You must have had a good reason, right? Why wouldn't you say anything more?"

"...So," Morgan let some of the heat escape from her voice, "he'll definitely be all right?"

Sylvia nodded, "It'll take a few days, at least, but with my staves the healing should go pretty quickly. He's just lucky Virion shot as fast as he did; any more burns and that flame would have cooked his insides like the gizzards of a strategically-gifted turkey."

"Sylvia," her sister moaned at the joke, pinching her nose and pantomiming vomiting.

The performer's eyes gleamed as she chuckled, "You really get a good sense of pathos from that one, eh?" As they settled down, she glanced up at her little sister, "Can you at least try to stop fighting with him?"

"We never fought," Morgan protested.

Sylvia rolled her eyes, "Right. You've been buddy-buddy this entire trip, huh?"

"I didn't ask to be recruited into a war," the thief jeered at the ground before her, "and, as a matter of fact, I only even came with him because I was afraid of him dying."

"So you do still care," Sylvia smiled.

"Of course!" growled Morgan, "It's not like I ever stopped caring; he's still my father. I just... I'm angry with him... I want to understand, but he won't tell me, and... sometimes... I don't know what to make of him, Sylvie. He hasn't even said anything about..."

Sylvia followed her sister's eyes as they fell to the ground, rapt with realization. "About what?" the performer demanded.

"Oh, Sylvie..." Morgan bit her lip, "I... I'm so sorry. I'm sure you've been dying for news about mom..."

"You know something about mom?" Sylvia's eyes lit up.

The little redhead refused to answer, playing with a strap on her shirt. She tried to cover her face with a mop of her own curly locks, but her older sister soon forced her hand with repeated insistence. "Mom is... I was in town to see her, maybe cash in a few of my spoils, but... when those soldiers came... and the town was on fire..."

Sylvia's face had fallen again, and all the jubilant red had been sapped out of her cheeks as she watched her sister, deadly pale, those two sapphires tracing every word in midair, "Morgan... what are you saying?"

"I don't... I don't know if she got out," was all the redhead could force, clutching her shoulder as if she were holding back an open wound.

Sylvia dropped to her knees in the grass, and her real voice returned, but in a horrifically echoing sort of gasp, a voice that travelled through a tunnel before it reached Morgan's ears, "Oh gods... mom... No. Please, gods, no..."

"I'm sorry," Morgan pleaded, "I didn't mean to hide it from you, Sylvie, I guess I just suppressed it... I wanted so badly for it to be untrue..."

After another minute's reflection, the performer stared at her hands, then rifled them fitfully through the grass, scrubbing her open palms on the dirt and tearing away blades of the grass with the same absentminded stare. When she had finished this mysterious task, she asked, without shifting her eyes, "So, what you mean to tell me is... we were almost orphans tonight. Steve, Leo, you, me, all of us... we almost lost the last of our parents just tonight?" Morgan declined to answer, though it made no difference to Sylvia, "And even knowing all that... you couldn't settle your silly little dispute with him?"

"It wasn't..." the redhead hesitated, choosing her words, "I never meant for..."

"You know, when you were born... there was a time..." Sylvia began. Wondering if this was too harsh a reproach, she stopped herself, thinking better.

Morgan refused to let it go, however, "Leo said something like that, too. He was upset with me once... What were you going to say?"

The performer shook her head and began to stand again, "Nothing. You should be grateful for the things you have, Morgan. Be mindful of what you don't say. That's some advice mom once gave me."

"I wish I knew what you meant," replied her sister in a manner that seemed like pouting.

"I'm going to attend to our father now," the performer asserted, "As I'm sure he has something to say about this information. Good night."

The tent flap ruffled as Sylvia went in, leaving the wind to caress Morgan's hair as it swirled through the leaves and across the grasses, shaking the mauves of dusk. She turned and walked back to Rosanne Keep, staring at its high white walls.

* * *

"My friends," Lucina smiled into the burgeoning daylight, "the first part of our campaign has passed without issue. I attribute the entirety of our success to your efficiency as a fighting force; each of you gives the others strength, and you drive us all forward with every step. At such a pace, ours will be a brief skirmish, to be sure."

The Legacy Shepherds applauded and cheered, nodding appreciatively to their princess.

"Where do you suppose Brady's gotten off to?" Maribelle whispered to her husband, "A young man should assist his mother in trials such as these."

"I'm willing to bet he's wherever Severa is," Cordelia smiled pleasantly, "those two have been inseparable for the longest time... Usually because Severa is always dragging Brady by the ear, but... details."

"Daughter is taking passion of lovely mother with lion-heart and fearlessness of father," Gregor thumbed at himself, "She is... what is word? Inextricable?"

"I got the faintest sense I used to hear that word shouted a lot," Gaius scratched his neck, "But yeah, if Brady's anything like his old man, he'll stick to whatever gets him the sweetest rewards like melted caramel."

"I feel certain both Cordelia and I would appreciate your not referring to our children's potential... relationships as 'sweet rewards,' Gaius," Maribelle sighed disapprovingly.

"Heh, whatever, Twinkles," he sneered, "I'm an old coot now. Nobody but nobody gets to censor me."

"Still, Gregor is very protective of little girl," the mercenary cleared his throat, "Thief is making sure that son does not go around wrecking the houses, yes?"

Gaius chuckled a little more, "No, I'm pretty sure Brady counts his lucky stars he's got someone as nice looking as Severa. He'd hafta be pretty dumb to give that up."

Lucina listened to the other Shepherds communicate between themselves, then sighed contentedly to herself before turning around. What relief, she thought, to see that she wasn't hopeless as a commander; she could fill her father's big shoes after all. She finally had the opportunity to prove that she could stand her own ground for Ylisse when the need arose, and she would most definitely bring her father back to his home shortly. The princess closed her eyes and smiled broadly: yes, today had been a success, and she would continue to bring victory to her homeland and verify the sanctity of her birth.

"Princess."

Lucina started with a small yelp when she opened her eyes to find a figure standing before her. It took her a moment to absorb his strange looks, but she realized quickly that this was the same prescient individual whose counsel had helped to win back Ylisstol. She stared silently in awe of his covered face briefly, contemplating how to extend her thanks.

"This advance of yours... how far do you plan to take it?" interrogated the figure.

The thought caught Lucina off-guard while she was contemplating her gratitude, "Until I rescue my father, I suppose."

The crimson-hooded figure nodded slowly, sagely, "I want you to make me a promise, if you're amenable."

The Ylissean princess cocked an eyebrow, but knew better than to question someone already so mysterious: anything extemporaneous she could ask would obviously be stonewalled. "What would you have me promise?"

"That you will end your march when your father is saved," answered the figure.

"Er, I'm confused," Lucina admitted, "Isn't that what I said I'd do?"

The Crimson Hood took a step back, demonstrating that he had no need to answer the question, "Pride comes before the fall, Lucina."

"Wait, don't leave," she pleaded, "I need to thank you for rescuing my army-my friends. Won't you at least tell me your name?"

Lucina observed a smirk from beneath the hood, "My name is one that the legends have long since absorbed. It is irrelevant; I no longer exist. I represent the voice of another age. And we are Legion, for we are many."

"I fear you've lost me," the princess frowned.

"Concern yourself not with me, princess," commanded the figure, returning to a more instructive tone, "Take good care of your flock."

"Thank you," she said weakly.

The figure pivoted around and stepped over a small hillside, vanishing behind it.

The Ylissean princess looked back out to her Legacy Shepherds, realizing that not so much as one of them had seen the encounter. She blinked in rapid succession and glanced back past the hill, but, of course, he had disappeared.

* * *

"Steve," the assassin managed, sounding more as if he were trying to get the name off his tongue in a hurry.

"Lee-lee," his brother smiled back, leaning against the ship's railing.

Leo scowled, "Knock that off. Nobody's called me that in more than a decade."

"Apologies," the silver-haired man shrugged in a manner that made that seem like a lie, "I do always think of you as my baby brother, you know?"

"I figured you might wanna chat after not seeing each other for a couple'a years," the assassin folded his arms, "but if you're just gonna be an ass about it..."

"No, no," Steven implored, "do forgive me, Leo, I wasn't trying to cause offense. You know your brother can be damnably acerbic without meaning to."

"Right," Leo nodded, "and I know for years I was the only one who was willing to put up with it."

"Indeed you were," Steven smiled, "You wanted so badly to have a model for male behavior..."

"Er, but enough reminiscing," Leo coughed, swishing his cape around his back as he moved his arm, "That's not what I came here for."

"No?" the silver-haired man shifted his position on the railing, "Do tell."

"W-Well, I dunno!" Leo shrugged his shoulders, "I just figured, y'know, you might wanna shoot the shit."

"Mm," Steven murmured, "Well, I fear I've shot so much shit in my time I've grown rather weary of it. Perhaps you'd care to begin?"

"Griffon's beak, Steve, why d'ya gotta make this such a hassle?" sighed his brother, "Uh, how's the whole political business goin'?"

"Well enough that I'm sure it'd bore you to tears," the orator mused.

"Actually," Leo rubbed his neck, "I've gotten a little more involved in politics, myself."

"I gathered," his brother nodded, staring at the emblem pinned to his outfit, "Tread cautiously, brother. 'In turba luporum,' eh?"

"Steve, when are ya gonna learn nobody but you knows what any'o that crap means?" Leo tapped his foot impatiently.

"Just mind your blade in the organization of professional assassins with polarized political motivations," his brother elaborated.

"Sure," Leo nodded, "and remember which of those creeps you're deciding to help, eh?"

"Always," nodded the silver-haired man.

"Aw," cooed Anna from her position at the wheel, "do I hear my two boys acting like partners in crime again?"

"G-Give it a rest, mom," Leo blushed, "we're just talking."

"Oh, of course. Don't let me break up the meeting," the redhead giggled, "You two are always so cute."

"Anyway," Leo turned away, "How long d'ya think it'll be till we see dad?"

"Well, we'll most likely arrive in Valm Harbor in just a few days, but finding father will depend largely on our ability to find valuable information as to his location, I should suspect," remarked the orator, watching the slowly rocking horizon.

The assassin nodded and breathed deeply, contemplating the sun. "Right then," he declared after a moment's silence, "Er, good talkin' to you, Steve."

"Likewise, Leo," Steven smiled, "And, um..."

"Yeah?" Leo waited.

"Regardless of the work, I respect your choice of profession, Leo. You have a position, and you do your best to enforce it. That's a very noble aim," the silver-haired man nodded.

Leo turned and headed toward the captain's cabin, "Uh, yeah, sure... Thanks, Steve."

"He might not be able to see you blushing, but I can!" Anna sung at her son.

"Oh, stick a sock in it!" Leo hurried off. Steven shrugged and chuckled to himself, leaning back out on the railing.

* * *

The Storm Blade sat and glanced at his nails, crossing his leg onto his knee to get more comfortable. If there was one thing that put him out more than anything, it was being made to wait, but this was a special case, and he would have to tolerate it for a little while. The man with the leaf-green hair stared about the room, searching for something that could strike up his interest. His eyes tracked up the wall and settled on a wide painting that covered up the dark wood with its gilded frame. He recognized the depiction: it came from an epic he had read long ago in his schooling. The scene showed a valiant-looking soldier in shining platemail holding up a silvery flagpole. Next to him, a dirty-looking vagabond was reaching past his head to try to tear the flag down. The background was of a cliff with waves from a nearby see crashing against the crag and layering spray all about the cliff's face. What had been the title of that work? Cyrus felt it on the tip of his tongue, then cursed as the door clicked open.

"Beggin' your pardon, Cyrus," excused the older man as he stepped out of his office, brushing his dark, thick mustache.

"No bother, Mercurio," nodded the Storm Blade.

"You said you needed to talk a bit o' business?" inquired Mercurio, straightening put both his clothes and his hair.

"Right. I wanted to inquire after a few records, if they're available," continued the green-haired swordsman.

"Of course, of course," he nodded, "Why don't you step into my office and have a seat?"

"Thank you," Cyrus accepted the offer and was led into the nearby room, which was coated wall to wall in gaudy artifacts and treasures earned through some travail or another, including a few paintings, though several of these were portraits of their owner.

"Saw you eyeing my painting back there," smiled the dark-haired man, pulling open a drawer and withdrawing a pair of spectacles for himself. "I'm real proud of that one. It's an original. Got a fancy name: 'La Pouvoir des Sans-Drapeaux...' Or something like that."

"Charming," Cyrus declared banally, "I'm looking for travel records, for a few names."

"Sure, sure," Mercurio nodded, smiling broadly, proceeding to rifle through large dossiers, replete with decaying parchment and all bound by rough leather, "How's that lass you were swinging around the last time I saw you, uh... Samantha?"

"Tabitha," Cyrus corrected, "and hells if I know. That was one night."

"Haha!" the dark-haired man pounded raucously on his desk, "That's why I love you young folk. So free, so uncaring... Hah, a wife really starts to slow you down over the years, my boy."

Cyrus glanced down at the desk and saw a note in fanciful cursive handwriting. He didn't bother to read most of it when he noticed the tagline: "Your Special Flower, Daisy." There weren't any portraits of Mercurio's wife in the room. "I want to know if anyone named Robin has passed through Valm Harbor, among a few other names."

"Robin, Valm Harbor," recited the older man, "Gimme just a minute." After a bit pf feverish searching through several of his dossiers, Mercurio looked up with a frown, "Nope. Don't see any Robins."

"What about an Inigo?" the Storm Blade continued.

"Hmm... well, here's one from Flamenco. That's in Santeria," observed the dark-haired man, indicating with his finger.

"No, the one I'm looking for is from Ylisse," answered the man with the leaf-green hair.

"Well," Mercurio began to shake his head, "I really don't see much in here, Cyrus. Sorry, but I don't think I can help you much."

Cyrus nodded slowly and vaguely before deciding, "That painting of yours... where'd you get it?"

"Hmm?" Mercurio looked up and scratched his mustache.

"'La Pouvoir des Sans-Drapeaux.' How did you come by it?" reiterated the Storm Blade.

"Oh, an old friend of mine was trying to make a living as an artist, but he hardly had a coin to his name, so I commissioned it. Lovely work, huh?" he smiled, returning to looking at his files.

"Yeah, really special," Cyrus nodded his head at the work, which he could still see through the ajar door to the office, "Especially when one considers that it belongs to Dynast Fae'tal."

Mercurio picked his head up again, "How's that?"

"That piece... it was painted almost a hundred years ago to commemorate a scene from a work that was the favorite of former Dynast Fae'tal of Shai'low. It was thought lost when Shai'low was destroyed in the war that united Chon'sin, because the dynast's palace was ransacked," explained Cyrus with all the wisdom of an art historian.

Mercurio coughed and brushed his mustache, "So, uh, what are you saying...?"

"I'm saying you shouldn't have your hands on it," Cyrus folded his arms, "Who gave it to you? What are you hiding from me?"

The dark-haired man scowled angrily, "Hiding? Are you accusing me of something? You're lucky I'm helping you at all, filthy street rat that you are! I could have you sued for defamation you little cretin! I'm not hiding a damn thing!" Mercurio slammed his open palms on the desk.

With a fluid motion, Cyrus flicked the dagger at his belt into his hand and swung it down in an arc so that it bore through Mercurio's open palm and nailed it to the desk. "Do you think I'm playing some kind of game, here?" The Storm Blade growled over his adversary's howls of pain. Grabbing the hilt of the blade and twisting it down further, he commanded, "Don't piss on my head and tell me it's raining. Those two came through here. I want to know when. And more importantly, I want to know why you're covering it up."

"Oh gods!" the dark-haired man writhed, "I-It was Bar'kim! He paid me to strike the records! I didn't have anything else to do with it, I swear!"

"Bar'kim?" the man with the leaf-green hair repeated, "isn't that one of Datura's sycophants?"

"I promise I haven't the slightest," begged Mercurio.

Cyrus sighed and nodded to himself, "I guess I'll have to figure out why Datura would try to sandbag word about Robin getting out. Thanks for the info, old boy."

"S-Sure, whatever," the man wheezed, his arm convulsing, "N-Now, this knife...?"

Cyrus turned and inspected it, "Hmm, right... It is one of my favorites, made by a rather grizzled old Chon'sin armorer. Hard-hearted fellow, but amazing craftsmanship..."

"Piss in a pot, Cyrus, just pull the damned knife out!" demanded the dark-haired man.

Cyrus looked up, cocked an eyebrow, and then glanced back down, "No... I think the aesthetic works. It really ties the room together, you know? I'll leave it as my present to you." The Storm Blade stood and left, chuckling a bit to himself as he went out of the small office.

"You crazy sonuvabitch!" Mercurio screamed after him, "You get back here! I wipe my ass with your class of folk! Get back in here and let me go!"

* * *

Robin grabbed the breast of his cloak and sat up, feeling the sweat pour down the side of his face. He cracked his neck as his eyes adjusted to the dim orangish glare of the candlelight, exhaling slowly. He put his palm over his face and shut his eyes, taking a breath, before reopening them.

"I'm surprised to see you woke up so soon," mused a small voice from the corner of the darkened tent.

He scoffed, "If I had a gold coin..."

"Honestly, I'm a bit surprised you're as cheery as you are," added Sylvia, coming into view.

"Heard that one, too," her father laughed.

"Daddy..." Sylvia wrung her hands, "Morgan told you her news, didn't she? She had to have."

Robin's eyes narrowed, "Of course. It was among the first things I asked her about."

"Then why didn't you say anything?" Sylvia meant for it to be an admonishment, but it came out with a ringing of melancholy.

"I... have faith in your mother," declared the Grandmaster slowly.

"That's a lot of nonsense," called the young performer.

Robin's head sunk with an exhale, "I don't want it to be. Sylvia, the prospect of your mother being gone, I can't... I can't even begin to imagine..."

The performer prepared to reply, but her father gestured to suggest he had more to say, prompting her to remain silent.

"Your mother... she was all the remainder of my life, Sylvia. Whenever I saw no point in continuing, I could think to myself, 'But what would Anna do without me?' If she's gone, then..."

"Maybe you could live on for your children?" postulated Sylvia, "You only watched us like a mother hen for about sixteen years each."

"My children have better things to do than waste time on their aging dotard of a father," Robin replied, smiling.

"If you no longer care for the world, that's fine," Sylvia folded her arms, "Morgan and I plan to help Virion's family win this war so we can set things right. If you aren't going to tag along, you can just fall down in the dirt and die. But if there's anyone left in this world you still care for, I'd suggest you get back onto your feet promptly and face what remains of the danger like a man."

"Are you giving me orders?" coughed the Grandmaster with a chuckle.

"I'm asking you, as your daughter, to stay strong," Sylvia balled her fists.

They both paused a minute, Robin staring into his daughter's sapphire eyes and at the faint illumination of her curls of chestnut hair, scarcely lit by the small candle before he smiled again and began to clap, "Ha, that was a pretty good one, Sylvie. I really felt the family drama."

The girl bowed and let her pale blue cloak slide down to cover her shoulders, then rose back up and smiled broadly, "Thank you, thank you, you're too kind."

"When's your next show, dear? It's been a while since I last saw you perform onstage," he added.

"Probably after the war, daddy," she smiled teasingly.

"I..." his face sunk, "about your mother... I don't know what to say to you, honey."

She withdrew a bit as well, "You don't have to say anything. I know you're probably taking this a lot harder than I ever could. I'll miss the hell out of her, but... well... the show must go on, eh?"

Robin nodded, "Business before all else; that's certainly how your mother would handle it. If her ghost could run that damned store, I'd be stuck there for eternity."

"Daddy," she slapped him half-heartedly, "that's much too soon to joke about."

"What is comedy but tragedy over time, my dear?" he supposed with a shrug.

"Well, I can agree she wouldn't want everyone to sit around sulking about her," Sylvia breathed, "It's still going to take me some time, though."

"Me too, sweetheart," the Grandmaster looked into the candlelight, "me too." The silence of the tent began to crowd back in as the pair contemplated different sections of the area with their unblinking, hypnotized stares until Robin began to speak again, "You know, of all your siblings, I think you're the most like her."

"Me?" the performer put a hand over her chest, "It couldn't be... She's an expert, a pro in the art of mind control, and a tantalizing and altogether sweet lady to whom no one could compare."

"But it can be," argued her father, "you and your mother are... were both in the business of earning your gold through smiles. Anna won their hearts only for a few minutes to give them something they thought they wanted, but you, Sylvia... You open their hearts for hours on end to give them something they never knew they needed."

Sylvia laughed wildly, "Put like a true showman, father. It's nights like this when I remember why I love you and mother so damn much."

"Maybe I'm a little poetic about my daughter," he began to adjust his sitting so his legs could touch the floor and he leaned over the side of the cot, "sue me."

"I would, but neither of us have any money," replied his daughter.

"Oh, now she's a comedian, too," Robin chuckled.

Sylvia paused and ran a hand through her curly locks, staring at the ground, "You really think I'm like mother?"

"As close as any one of your aunts," Robin replied.

"Even Auntie Anna?" she asked.

"Yes, even her."

"And Auntie Anna?"

"Her too."

"What about Auntie Anna?"

"Like a carbon copy."

"But what about Auntie Anna?"

"Birds of a feather."

"Ooh, how about Auntie Anna?"

"One and the same."

"Or Auntie Anna?"

"Two halves of the same whole."

"How about Auntie Anna?"

"Hmm, I don't know, your mother and Auntie Anna are very alike..." Robin rubbed his bearded chin.

Sylvia was losing breath with her laughter now, "Daddy, thank you... I'm so glad you're okay."

He brought her into an embrace, "I know, honey. I'm glad, too. I'd miss you terribly."

As they separated, Sylvia spun around and began to work at her cloak, fitfully moving her hands around and digging for something. She groped blindly about the front of her pants near the bottom of her shirt, hidden by the cloak, and strained audibly as she searched, "Where'd I put it...?"

"Uh, honey?" Robin shifted his eyebrows uncomfortably, "Do you need me to give you a minute, or something?"

"No, no, I've got a surprise for you," she insisted with a playful little smile.

"Not helping," he scratched the back of his neck.

"Oh, can it," she stuck out her tongue. After another few seconds, she withdrew a bottle from the inside pocket of her cloak, "There it is! Ta-da!"

She presented the bottle to her still mildly uncomfortable father, who examined the label, "'Jus de Raisin?' Is that a Rosannien wine?"

"Yup," she grinned, "I made a little discovery in the castle."

"I thought your sister was the thief," the Grandmaster folded his arms.

"Oh, I can 'appropriate' one little thing here or there, can't I?" shrugged the performer, "Come on, you almost died today. Are you really going to deny your daughter a little drink?"

He smiled back at her and nodded, "Just drink responsibly. I'm not carrying you or making you eggs if you end up with a hangover tomorrow."

"I was going to have a couple'a sips before bed, daddy, that's all," Sylvia put her hands on her hips, "Honestly, what kinda girl d'you take me for?"

"The kind that I love and want to protect," came the reply.

"Here," she uncorked the bottle, "first sip's all yours."

Robin grabbed the bottle held it still for a moment, "You don't just gulp it down, Sylvie. A fine product like this, you need to let it breathe."

"I thought you didn't drink," his daughter answered.

"I don't, but I can be culturally sensitive," he touted.

"In the culture of casual sex, wine, and loose women, yes, I bet you could be an anthropologist," Sylvia returned.

"Now, what kind of man do you take me for?" he finally took a swig of the wine, "I'll have you know I never so much as touched another woman's bed before your mother's."

"For one: boring!" Sylvia stole back the bottle and took a drink, "I wanted to hear some old romantic exploits from my father. You know, using your clothes as a rope to steal out of ladies windows and courting your employer's daughters... that sort of thing."

"No tales of the sort, I fear," he shrugged.

"And for another," the performer took another drink, "Please don't say anything about 'sharing' mother's bed. Yuck."

Robin laughed and sunk back onto his cot, groaning only momentarily at a small pain in his chest, "Why don't you head to bed, Sylvia?"

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" she looked him over to gauge any weaknesses.

"I'll be fine. Good night, honey," he insisted.

She walked over and pecked him on the forehead, "Good night, daddy. Take care. And... if you need to talk any more, even about... especially about mom, come find me, okay?"

"All right, sweetheart," he cupped her cheek, ruffling a curly bang or two.

She nodded, satisfied, and left, letting the sound of the bottle being turned upside-down echo through the tent as she walked out.

* * *

"General Argent," a guard entered the chamber, "our invasion force, sir... they were routed. No one made it to Rosanne Keep."

The Silver Soldier stood, his armor making a tremendous cacophony as it clinked together. He poised his hands behind his back as he looked down to the guard, "What of Grandmaster Robin?"

"He was injured during the skirmish, sir," reported the guard, "but there exists no confirmation of his death. More likely he has survived and is currently recovering."

"What else can you report?" demanded the Silver Soldier.

The guard paused a moment to consider, then began, "Both Duke Virion and Duchess Cherche were present for the attack. They were accompanied by their son, Marquess Gerome. Reports also indicate that Prince Inigo of Ylisse was among the keep's defenders."

"I thought I saw as much when they arrived," Argent nodded to himself, "Anything further?"

"We are led to believe Grandmaster Robin has two daughters accompanying him, sir," answered the guard.

"Indeed, I met one, the little redheaded girl," recalled the Silver Soldier, "What can you tell me of their fighting ability?"

"Uh, well," the guard scratched his neck, "The red-haired one of which you spoke is accustomed to the sword, and is crafty and quick, but nowhere near as strong as our men."

"As may be expected of the daughter of a tactician," the general nodded to himself, "Continue."

"...And the other girl, the brunette," he added, "she commands a limited array of magic, but was occupied mainly with healing her comrades with staves in this battle."

"So, that's how he plans to play it," the Silver Soldier glared icily at no one in particular, "then we'll need to play our cards carefully but forcefully. He accepts that he cannot hope to overwhelm us."

"Sir," the guard accepted, assuming he was the subject of the command. "Also, if the general considers it important, scouts report catching glimpses of Lord Cyrus leaving in the direction of Chon'sin earlier."

Argent's eyes widened and he nodded slowly, "That is an interesting detail, but I sense little threat in it. I assume he is collecting information for Nihilus, nothing that should concern me, I'm sure."

"Shall I relay any orders to the men, general?" inquired the guard.

After a pause, Argent answered, "Yes. Tell the knight battalions to garrison the cities. Start with Nähe and work outward."

"Sir," obeyed the guard.

"And tell the others... we have a strategy to execute."

* * *

On a cliff, in the solemn purple mountains of Rosanne, a warrior sat cross-legged. A heavy sigh escaped this warrior's lips as the gaze of the warrior's eyes trailed along the glowing fires of the grounds where the valiant defenders had held their ground. There slept Sylvia and Morgan, the daughters of the legendary Grandmaster Robin. Robin, in equal measure, did and did not look the part of a Grandmaster: he was wizened in appearance, shadowed by gray hair, and he had the slower gait of an older man, but wisdom did not sparkle joyfully in his eyes; rather, it seemed to weigh them down, dragging the whole of his face down, if just by an inch. Whether the others sensed it or not, he was forlorn in his face, and in his heart. He was in a decidedly low place, even in the company of his daughters, and the warrior knew all this. For both Robin's sake and the warrior's own, the warrior eagerly anticipated their meeting. Was it curiosity, or something more? The warrior knew not, but whatever it was, it would soon lead to... an imprudence, perhaps.


	17. A Familiar Face

The boy swallowed hard, staring forward into the inky dark. He clenched his hand around the tiling of the roof a breathed slowly. The Doctor sat across from him. "Why?" he eventually brought himself to ask, gritting his teeth in spite of his own insubordination.

"Beg pardon?" the Doctor answered politely in his calming baritone.

"Why are we... doing this?" the boy looked down to his hands, hoping that by scrutinizing them something would appear different.

"You have to learn, son," was the simple reply, "You fought for yourself before, and I know it. Others will come looking for you, for those special eyes you have... unless you want to be someone else's pawn, you have to be willing to become a king." His spectacles slid down the bridge of his nose as he uttered the last line. With a pleasant smile, he readjusted them.

"It feels wrong," the boy complained.

"It always will," shrugged his mentor, "You should never take pleasure in your work; if you do, you've missed the point. You should know the justification and act on it. That's what I ask of you. Can you complete your assignment?"

The amethyst-haired boy gripped the roof tile intensely, to the point where he feared it would crack in his hand or fly off. He lowered his head and growled, "Yes."

"Then do it," his supervisor commanded impatiently.

He bowed and shuffled his way down the roof slowly, grimacing at the small "clack" that sounded with every step. Thankfully, he reached the edge without issue, and lowered himself over the drainage, clinging to the roof with his trembling hands. He sucked in a breath of air as he swung his leather boot forward, and it made another cringe-inducing tap on its intended target: the windowsill. After another pause for breath, he brought the other foot to the same place. Now came the hard part. He lowered his first foot to the lower part of the window's frame and replaced it with his left hand. He slipped as he attempted to do the same with his right side, requiring him to spend another full minute screaming internally, staring down at the void, washed out with blue, that waited below. Finally, the boy mustered his courage and landed his foot, firmly outlining the window with his limbs. He didn't even need to unlock the vestibule after that; typical of these folk, to always think they were safe high up in their castles. The glass was slowly pushed up, and the amethyst-haired boy slipped himself in, again mindful of the sound of his feet.

A light flickered past the corridor. Dammit, he was too early! The man's footsteps trailed slowly up the staircase. This was a part of the Doctor's plan for certain: the boy would need to enact his training carefully. Without a second thought, he pressed himself to the wall by the door and listened, more intently than he had listened to anything before. The stranger stopped, coughed, and waited, perhaps inspecting something or, as it seemed to the boy, simply torturing him by making the process take an arduous few minutes more, listening with his ear pressed up so closely the boy could swear he heard the beating of his hideous heart.

Then the steps continued, and it became even more terrifying, until that moment of sheer, blank reactivity arrived, when the first edge of a shoe came into view. As the second came forward, the boy darted out and seized the stranger by his shoulders and pinned him to the ground, tossing him to the floor and holding his arms behind his back. "Gah!" screamed the man, "Help!"

The amethyst-haired boy shoved his quarry's head into the carpet to silence him, "I would strongly recommend against that."

"What do you want?" the boy could hear the man's irritated voice past the muzzle of the floor.

"I'm afraid I've been contracted to end your life," he explained in kind.

"How much?" the stranger tried to bring his head back up, "What are they paying you? I'll double it."

"I've long lost the need for money," the boy frowned, "This is strictly a requirement."

"Please," he began to squirm, with a more earnest tone working its way through his voice, "I have a wife and two daughters. They're so beautiful... have you no conscience? Would you really take them away from me? And me from them?"

The boy hesitated, staring at the man's growing, soulful eyes, then closed his own, tightening his grip on his victim's wrists. He felt his vision going again, seeing white overtake the scene. He was presented with an image that horrified him, though he wasn't sure why. He saw Cypress, the dark-haired girl, alone in her chambers, sobbing silently to herself. Her hair was a strewn-about mess as she huddled herself together in her plain clothes. There were cuts along her clothes again, and a scar or a burn imprinting a fiery line on her pale cheek. The boy saw this, and understood that it was a choice, and that he would know these repercussions if it were made.

When reality returned, the man was still struggling, as if nothing had progressed since that moment. The boy nodded his head to an unseen observer and withdrew his knife from his belt. "I'm sorry," he told the man, whose pupils narrowed to the size of pinheads, "but life rarely proves itself fair to everyone. We all have an end before us, Samson, and this is yours."

The man writhed with one last effort to free himself, but the metal was planted in the back of his neck, severing his jugular and nicking his vocal chords, before he could make any further gesture. The blood ebbed in a pool out from his neck as he was stopped instantly, frozen in time, and the boy with the amethyst hair stood, backing away. He continued to step back until he hit a shelf and jumped, yelping acutely. It was at that time that the Doctor sauntered in. "Not bad," the tall man mused, "you need work, but for a first attempt, it's passable."

The boy's throat was dry, "Y-You were waiting?"

"I had to be sure," he smiled, "Some of my students decide to back out at the last moment... Naturally, I can't allow that." The amethyst-haired boy nodded slowly and regarded the body, ignoring his instructor for that moment. "You hesitated," he was called back to reality, the Doctor's inquisitive eyes leering at him, looking as wide and round as marbles, "Why?"

The boy's eyes sunk, and he clenched his fists tightly, the skin turning white beneath the pressure, "He... he said he had a family. I wondered... if it was right."

The Doctor closed his eyes and adjusted his spectacles, "And what do you think?"

"I think..." the boy had to pause to properly examine his own thought, "I think... I think it was a cheap ploy for mercy. If this man had been truly penitent, he would have spoken about his family before offering me money, or asking what his transgression was."

The Doctor nodded and reopened his eyes, "Then perhaps you are ready."

"Ready, sir?" stammered the boy.

He dismissed the thought, "All in good time, my boy. I'd like to talk about your heritage a bit tonight, if you'd be willing."

"Of course," he replied numbly, "but... this body..."

"I'll take care of it," insisted the Doctor, "Get yourself home. Cypress will have made you dinner."

"S-Sir," he bowed. The boy crawled back out the open window and climbed up the roof as before.

"Validar..." the Doctor sighed to himself, "Is this really your boy? Maybe he has his mother's soul... or maybe I'm being deceived. In either case, I may soon have myself a weapon."

* * *

With a start, the purple-haired man rolled over the side of the bed and vomited, the sensation of burning in his throat caused his eyes to water. He held his head over the side and waited, ruefully and disgusted with himself. He had made quite a noise, so it would only be a few moments.

Dahlia opened the door, staring straight at her superior. As she spotted him, her eyes followed the trail painted by his and noticed the accident. "Milord," she did her best to sound consoling without seeming condescending, "do you feel ill? Shall I get you something?"

"No," he sighed weakly, resigning himself back to the bed, "The only thing I feel is useless."

"I'll get someone to clean milord's floor," she bowed.

"Thank you, Dahlia," he growled.

The rose-haired swordswoman stood in the doorway a minute more before she decided the pressure to be too much, "Uh, milord... That is, uh, Nihilus?"

His head lifted from the bed, "Yes?"

"If you're not ill, sir, permit me to ask," she took a few steps forward, "What caused this sudden sickness?"

"It... must have been something I ate, that's all," he assured her, rolling over.

"That would constitute illness, sir," she corrected, "for which we possess a number of remedies."

"Then mayhap it was a simple reaction to something. I don't know, Dahlia," he cut a glance at her, "But it is not persistent, so don't bother. And I would ask that you not doubt me when I give you a direct order."

"Yes sir," she bowed, "forgive my impertinence. I would submit myself to milord's punishment."

"Just find someone to clean the damn floor," he groaned, "and see if Cyrus has any news yet."

"Sir," the Rose Blade bowed and left the room.

* * *

"Khan Vlasis... I'm pleased to see you again," the elderly man smiled beneath his dark robe.

The snow-white-haired lad smiled, too, and signaled his companion.

"Khan Vlasis reciprocates your pleasure at meeting, milord," replied Stewart.

"I wanted to discuss some troubling news I've heard of late," the robed man continued, eyeing the khan in a less amicable fashion.

Khan Vlasis raised an eyebrow.

"What is it you wish to discuss, sir?" Stewart allowed.

"Well," there are some troubling rumors that the man who spied upon us at our last meeting has broken free from your custody, is that so?" asked the robed man.

The khan lowered his head and nodded dejectedly to his companion.

"Milord deeply regrets this error, and assures you he is doing all he can to find this scoundrel, that he may be brought to justice," answered Stewart.

"That is not what I wanted to hear," the elderly man scowled.

Vlasis frowned and shook his head.

"Milord can only offer you the truth. All our efforts have been sunken into finding this man," Stewart continued.

"This is... disagreeable news," sighed the man opposite the khan, "I believe this means I must accelerate my efforts."

Vlasis shrugged.

"Milord asks what you mean to do," his stalwart offered.

"I have no choice but to conclude that this man was a spy from the West Khanate. We must take action," the man declared, balling his fist.

Vlasis shook his head.

"This man informed a guard shortly before his departure that he was Plegian," rebutted Stewart.

"Are you really so naïve?" scolded the elderly man, "He was obviously deceiving this man to gain entry to this chamber."

Vlasis bit his lip and frowned. Stewart looked to him, but said nothing.

"You know what I'm proposing then, Khan Vlasis?" demanded the visitor.

The young man nodded somberly. "Might I be privy, milord?" Stewart asked of his khan.

"Silence," hissed the robed man, "You need not know of our work; you are but an intermediary."

The khan shook his head and signed to his comrade, pantomiming the act of taking up a sword and holding up a standard, followed by a point to the castle's west side.

"But milord...!" Stewart exclaimed, "That would likely prove disastrous!"

Khan Vlasis glanced at the visitor and gestured down to his companion, nodding.

"This isn't a request, Khan Vlasis, it is an order," the elderly man scowled at the boy upon the throne.

With a final scowl, the boy nodded. He gestured to his subordinate.

"Milord... you can't be serious!" Stewart rebuffed him.

"That goes double for you, you cretin," the old man hissed at Stewart, "Tell your men that as of now they are all at war with Khan Lon'qu and the entire West Khanate. I will draw up the declaration myself and have it brought to Khan Lon'qu by a delegation of your finest warriors." Without a further word, the robed, elderly man with the cerulean hair took his leave.

"Milord," Stewart shuddered, "This is folly... This is suicide!"

The khan shook his head ruefully and looked sadly down at his comrade. He pointed to himself, then shook his head, then pointed to a pair of imaginary objects.

"But why, milord?" his stalwart begged, "Why let this 'Lord Datura' dictate your choices?"

The young man gestured with his hands folded around himself to suggest a robe, then offered something invisible with his hand, then pointed at himself and outstretched his arms from his heart.

"I'm afraid the meaning of your words elude me, Khan Vlasis," the man at his side stared perplexedly.

The white-haired young man shook his head again and waved his subordinate off, commanding him to undertake his given orders.

"Sire," Stewart obeyed.

* * *

"Gods help us..." murmured the elderly woman as she shrunk back into her doorframe, seeing the soldier looming over her.

"Don't make any fuss," he commanded gruffly, "just hand over all your food and there won't be any trouble."

"Can't you leave us alone? We're folk of meager means; we hardly have anything to begin with," growled her aging husband, stepping out front.

"I don't have time for moral quandaries or the opinions of peasants. Just hand it over and I won't kill you," the soldier repeated, rolling his eyes, "simple enough?"

"You'll have to take it from my cold, dead hands," the old man scowled.

"If you insist," the aggressor shrugged, unsheathing his sword.

"U-Um... S-Stop," begged a shaky voice. The group turned their eyes to a young man with brown hair pointing his pitchfork at the assailant, the pot on his head rattling, "Stop that... er, please?"

"Holland, you fool boy!" his grandfather scolded, "Get outta here! You askin' to get yourself killed?"

"I, uh..." he shuddered, then pointed his makeshift spear at the enemy, "Leave my granmammy and grandpappy alone."

"Ugh, just move aside, Holland," insisted a voice that was very clearly more than exhausted with the discussion. Severa impaled the foe on the end of her blade with little more than an excited yelp from his mouth. "You just gotta be decisive," she sighed, pulling out her sword with a grunt of effort."

"Hey, Severa," another gruff voice called out, "I hope ya didn't have any plans, 'cause that guy ya just stabbed has got a couple'a friends."

"How many's a 'couple?'" she asked.

Brady cupped his hand over his eyes to block the sunlight, "Two hundred? Maybe more."

Severa grimaced, "Always on the days when I get my hair just right..."

* * *

"Do we know much about the village?" Lucina demanded, glancing forward.

"No," Stahl answered, "It doesn't have a lot of strategic value-it's all plains-and there aren't any real choke points achievable by taking it... Why they're here is a total mystery."

"Do you suppose it's still worth the effort to attack, milady?" Frederick asked, "Perhaps we can leave this group for later and eliminate some of the larger concentrations first."

Lucina breathed to ponder it a moment, then nodded, "I'm not one to leave things to chance. If they're here, I'm willing to bet there's a good reason. And besides, I can't just ignore my own countrymen when they're in peril. What kind of princess would that make me?"

Sully chuckled, "You're becomin' more like your father every day, kid."

"I can only hope so," she smiled. "Now then," the village was slowly coming into view, "you have your assignments. Legacy Shepherds, to arms!" Horses worked up into gallops and boots began to beat steadily as dust clouds rose and the Legacy Shepherds stormed their way into the village.

As was typical, Stahl and Sully were the first ones in, and they wasted no time bouncing the enemies back and forth from their lances, opening up an entryway. Cordelia rode from above and threw javelins down with pinpoint accuracy, deftly picking off the stragglers that the cavaliers' initial advance missed. Kjelle, too, picked up her parents' minimal slack, spearing any of the mercenaries who had managed to avoid all the other onslaughts.

Gaius rode alongside his wife, who sailed quickly across the open plains, scorching and scattering of waves of the mercenaries with little effort. When they came too close, Gaius leapt off and drove his blade into shoulders and across chests to repel the tide of troops suddenly forced to scramble to their feet.

Kellam and Miriel made up the rear guard for this attack, striking like artillery with javelins and blasts of flame, respectively, to disrupt larger congregations of the enemy holed up in the village. Sumia and Frederick were left to take point, Sumia circling the skies and Frederick patrolling the ground to provide aid where it was needed.

Lucina entered the town, now alive and roaring with the sounds of metal clinking and scores of soldiers rushing to attention, on the coattails of her vanguard (Kjelle eventually stepped aside to find smaller pockets of troops that might have gone unnoticed), taking considerable joy in making her presence known. She had caught the attackers off-guard; they had never predicted that Ylisse would retaliate this quickly. She would find her father soon.

No sooner had that thought entered her head, however, than did an arrow narrowly miss doing the same, cutting a few sapphire locks as she flinched and sidestepped after the fact. A warrior bared his teeth at her as he swung his axe, and the princess tiptoed past the sweep carefully, catching her breath from the surprise. Her foe wasted no time and chopped again, but this Lucina parried, creating a cacophonous twang as her blade intercepted the axe. The rapier, however, was thin and the axe-wielded very strong, so the princess skipped back a step and waited for her foe to charge again. The opponent happily complied, but Lucina was now prepared and moved out of harm's way as easily as if she were navigating a foot-wide wall, and delivered a quick retaliatory stab with her weapon, toppling the enemy.

The archer fired again, albeit less accurately; this shot stuck in the ground near Lucina's foot and she grimaced, looking for a way to return fire. Before she could answer the attack, though, a knight rattled up to her loudly in his massive suit and thrust his lance forward impatiently. Lucina bobbed her head out of the way, but felt a rough push to her back that almost brought her to the ground, but only succeeded in making her stagger forward; an enemy swordsman was halfway through swinging his blade at her, and the knight was ready to do the same. Seeing that, Lucina ducked down and heard the sword smash with a loud metallic vibration against her other adversary, who, by sound, had just grazed his ally with the lance, confirmed in short order by a drip of blood that landed near Lucina's crouched head.

The swordsman swore vengeance as he snarled at her and, clutching his side, swung again. It was blocked easily, and Lucina elbowed him to the ground, catching the knight preparing another attack. Hurrying into action, the princess drew up her slender blade and thrust it into the open helm of the knight, the suit's one vulnerability. She stepped back as a fountain of blood poured out and the knight fell to his knees, screeching and clutching blindly at his inaccessible face. With finality, Lucina stabbed down to silence the swordsman before he could recover.

But there was no time for celebration; another arrow whistled through the air, and, fortunately, Lucina was cognizant enough of the archer's presence to get behind the fallen knight, who absorbed the blow. The hooves of cavalrymen, most likely the mercenaries' elite, began to beat into the ground, and Lucina became acutely aware of the amount of sweat on her forehead and fatigue in her breast from so many swift movements as the sounds of enemies drew nearer.

At the last moment, however, the hooves turned, accompanied by a voice, "Gut the redheaded bitch and the priest! Then get back here!"

A thought on those words crossed Lucina's mind, and so she ducked out from behind the knight and sprinted with all the energy remaining in her legs to get out of the archer's range. Sure enough, the sapphire-haired princess found her guess to be correct, seeing the familiar girl and her significant other grit their teeth at the approach of the cavalry.

"Any ideas, Brady?" asked the girl, staring death in the face.

"Not many, other than kill 'em all and let Naga sort 'em out," he replied, dislodging his axe from an enemy's skull and turning to face the riders.

Despite already feeling quite out of breath, Lucina sprinted forward toward the line of horses and summoned her strength: she would only have one shot at this.

* * *

"You're sure you're okay joining the fight today, daddy?" Sylvia supported her father's shoulder as he moved out of the tent.

Morgan was watching them both, "You... you were hurt pretty bad. Are you going to be any help to us like that?"

The Grandmaster tapped his chest gingerly and coughed, "It was a burn, not a laceration, nor a bone fracture. I can fight just fine. If an enemy gets close enough for soreness in my chest to be a factor, I'm already in hot water."

The group had already travelled a few miles from Rosanne, leaving Cherche with roughly half the army they had gained to protect the keep in case of any future advances (Robin was, to the group's mystery, rather certain that there wouldn't be). Meanwhile, Robin, his daughters, Inigo, Virion, and Gerome led the remainder of their force over the Lieben border as a part of a greater strategy Robin had not yet revealed.

"What is our approach?" the duke of Rosanne elected to ask as the group walked toward a small cliff overlooking their intended target: a Liebenese border town.

"I've had increasing suspicions, traveling across Valm as I have thus far, and one of them has recently provided an interesting lead," the Grandmaster began.

"Don't keep us in suspense, old man," Gerome tapped his foot, leering at Robin.

"The mage that attacked me..." he sighed and closed his eyes, "Did you see any other mages among the Liebenese forces?"

Virion pinched his chin and pondered it a moment, "Now that you mention it, I do not believe so."

"That's because the Liebenese use only physical weaponry; the study of magical arts is seen as a waste in such a military culture," Robin concluded with a nod.

"So, what does this mean for us, daddy?" Sylvia put her finger to her chin.

"It means someone other than Lieben and General Argent is pulling strings in this fight," Robin folded his arms, "which leads us to here. This is the last town the Liebenese soldiers could have visited before reaching Rosanne Keep, meaning there may be some clues to our mage's orders hidden somewhere within. In terms of our fight with Lieben, it will provide us with the added benefit of a direct supply line to Rosanne."

"So," Inigo pushed forward, "what's the plan of attack?"

Robin looked to each of his comrades, "Gerome, since you're our only flier, I'll ask you to provide support and surveillance. Virion, as the leader of this army, be bold and encourage them forward, but remain within their midst, where you're protected. Inigo, I'd like for you to take to the front."

"And what about me?" Morgan interjected.

"If you want to follow Inigo onto the front lines, I won't stop you," Robin conceded with a bow of his head, "but I will be right beside you."

"You're going to be up front?!" Sylvia stammered, "No way! That's way too dangerous in your condition!"

"Sylvia, I appreciate your concern, but I'll be fine," he patted her head, "Stay near Virion and have your staff ready if things get dicey."

"I really don't approve of this plan," she pouted.

"Who's the master tactician here?" he winked back.

"The same one who nearly died less than twenty-four hours ago?" Sylvia cocked an eyebrow.

Her father chuckled, "I know I'm a hard man to trust, Sylvie, but I beg your cooperation. You'll see I usually have at least some idea of what I'm doing."

Sylvia stared slowly at her father, then shifted her eyes over to her sister and frowned.

* * *

A pocket of water swirled beneath the ship's bow and slapped into a small whirlpool with an amusing plop. Leo adjusted his legs, leaning to the other side and shifted his weight forward onto his crossed arms, settled on the railing. A shimmering silver-scaled fish darted alongside the vessel at breakneck speed before promptly veering off. He stared at it only a moment before refocusing on the cerulean blue of the seafloor, some high crags of which were visible thanks to the water's clarity and the abundant sunlight. He watched the pale rock, tinted aqua, pass slowly under their transport.

"There you are," he was snapped back into reality by a lighthearted voice. His mother settled herself beside him, "You thought you could hide out below deck the whole trip, huh?"

"I wasn't hiding," he rebutted, still attending the ocean, "I just keep to myself."

"Don't I know it," the redhead smiled gently. When she saw she was having no effect, she patted her son on the head, "Talk to your mom for a second, huh?"

"What do you need?" he turned, presenting the servile tone that was his inheritance.

"I want to know more about those assassins you joined," she examined the insignia he wore.

"I can't just reveal everything," he preempted her.

"Just a few questions," Anna reassured him.

He leaned back against the ship's railing, "Make it quick."

"Who was your last target?" she made eye contact.

Leo frowned and swallowed, "Privileged info. I'm not at liberty to say."

"How about your first?" she insisted.

"Low-ranking Valmese official," he remembered after some difficulty, "Claimed to be starting a rebellion against the new government in Walhart's name. Called himself Stonbrin, I think."

"Is that mostly what you did, then? Silenced rebellions?" Anna continued.

"No, sometimes we encouraged 'em. It depended on the situation. It was a question for the big shots to decide," her son elaborated. "Although," he thought, "for the first few months, I was kind of a squirrel." Anna blinked and waited for him to say something more. "I got all the nuts," he explained with a smile.

Anna laughed and shared the smile with her son, then added, "What can you tell me about leadership?"

"Well, they say it comes from within, and it requires great strength of character..."

"Ha ha. Your leadership, smart guy. Who are your superiors?"

"I won't name them," he told a cloud behind his mother, "but promotion is entirely internal; you have to be in long before you can call the shots."

"Any kind of mission statement?" the merchant continued, amazed to have gotten this far.

"We recognize that the world is imperfect," the assassin supposed, "We try to keep the corrupt in check, to make the ruling class answer to someone. They have an obligation to their people, too. I know the question is always 'But who watches the watchers?' and all I can say is we do our best to strictly self-regulate. We recognize that we, too, are imperfect, however."

"What a lofty credo," Anna mused, watching her son's reverent soliloquy.

"Mostly just doctrine," Leo finished, "Work is work. I just happen to like the way those guys think."

"Just as long as you remember..."

"The gravity of taking a life?" he repeated the caution from his father verbatim, "I'm aware, I promise. Every life I take... I run a feather in the blood. I let it set, and when it dries and is sterilized..." Leo drew his cape over his shoulder so that its underside was visible. It was lined with drooping feathers, each of which bore red streaks of varying length and with that resulted in a sort of striped look to the salmon-colored robe. "The weight of the deed is always on my shoulder."

Anna stared at the rows and columns of feathers a minute longer, then nodded slowly to her son, "Thanks for chatting with me, sweetie."

"Any time, mom," he turned to face the ocean again.

"Your mom loves you," the redhead tacked on.

Her son blushed, "Uh, you too."

Anna took another moment to stand by her son and watch the sun turn the horizon orange as it began its descent. She heard Steven begin to whistle another tune from the wheel, then gathered herself and headed back to the upper deck.

* * *

"One," Lucina breathed, drawing her rapier close.

"Two," the redhead across from her also exhaled, bringing her steel sword up almost to shoulder level.

"Three!" Brady jumped forward with his axe held vertically, the blade of it dividing his face in half. It glinted as he jumped as high as his legs would tolerate and planted the weapon in his enemy's skull.

Shortly, Severa leapt out from her hiding place and threw a series of careening slashes at the next cavalier. The first two or three of these had no effect on the rider but marked up the horse terribly, causing it to rear in such a way as to make the rider more accessible, whereupon the remaining flurries of Severa's sword flung him from his steed to sink into a puddle of his own blood.

Lucina concluded the attack, brandishing her rapier and leaping forward, praying to deliver one concentrated stab with its needle tip, but this approach failed as the rapier's length was brushed away by a lance, the oppositely-positioned tip of which would have impaled Lucina if not for her breastplate. Instead, the princess felt the wind knocked out of her chest, a sensation of forceful exhale that dropped her promptly to the muddy ground. The cavalier's horse trotted a few steps closer and he raised his lance to strike down.

Then there came a lush-sounding sort of squishing and shearing sound, like a knife slicing a cucumber. The rider slid limply off his horse with a hatchet buried in his face. "Ha, right between the eyes," Brady celebrated. Severa gave him a distasteful look, but he shrugged innocently and she seemed to stop caring. The redheaded mercenary drifted over to the princess and offered her hand. Lucina accepted it graciously and felt her weight pulled back into a distribution between both her feat.

"Thank you, Severa," the young lord breathed, "I knew I could count on you."

"Don't get used to it," she folded her arms, "My mother might be obliged to protect Ylissean gentry, but I don't have time to babysit."

"How I've missed that sunny disposition of yours," Lucina smiled weakly.

"Glad you're all right, Lucy," Brady stepped between them, "I heard what happened to Ylisstol, and I-well, we-feared the worst. We were actually on our way up there, but we got involved with these troublemakers..."

"Say no more," Lucina replied, "they'll be making no more trouble after today; the Shepherds and I are going to reclaim my homeland one battle at a time."

"Sounds like fun," Brady winked.

"So, you think I'm going to tag along just because you say so? Because you want me to, huh?" Severa snarled at the lord.

Lucina frowned, "I'm sorry, Severa. Did I cause offense? Are you unwilling to help us?"

"Did I say that?" the redheaded girl rolled her eyes, "Of course I'm going to help, but only because I want to beat these dastards more than anybody, got that?"

"Glad to have you aboard, Severa," the princess smiled appreciatively, "Now that you're with us, is there anything you can tell us about these... would brigands be the word?"

Severa stared at the body of the final cavalier that had been killed, the blood seeping into his hair from the axe wound, "I think 'brigand' is fair, though they fight better than any random looter, I have to give them that much. The only thing I know for sure is that Brady just axed their commander... literally."

"That's great news," Lucina nodded, "they'll capsize from within."

"We're still probably gonna hafta fight a bunch of 'em," Brady observed banally, watching a few of the Legacy Shepherds locked in fierce melees.

"Don't tell me you're scared," Severa leered at him.

"Hell no," the priest answered, "I'm just wondering how long we're gonna stand around balking before we get to it."

"Point well taken," Lucina nodded, "Let's end this."

"Right behind you as always, Lucina," Severa raised her sword, "Let's get moving." The two girls began hastening to the aid of the Legacy Shepherds. Brady held on a moment longer, staring at the enemy faction with a raised eyebrow. "Come on, Brady!" Severa eventually called after him, "Quit dragging your feet, gawds!"

* * *

"You've gotten a bit better with that sword," Robin remarked contentedly as Morgan swung upward and gashed her opponent.

"I've always had talent, some people are just blind to it," she answered with a wink, knocking another enemy to his feet with a quick swipe. She lurched as she was apprehended from behind by a knight.

Said knight was thrown to the ground and had another sword stabbed into his face. Robin kicked him for good measure, "Confidence is an asset. Arrogance is a flaw."

"Can we minimize the lectures on the active battlefield?" she groaned, dusting herself off and kicking an advancing mercenary.

"Just keep your wits about you," the Grandmaster smiled, slashing at a pair of soldiers, felling them in twin sprays of blood.

The pair continued their fight, making short work of most of the ground troops (Gerome and his father helped to keep the skies clear of other wyverns) and staining the ground at their feet decidedly amber as the winds dried out the signs of the struggle. The enemy were standing on their last legs before long, and the conflict itself was populated solely with simple engagements throughout the small town, Morgan and Inigo eventually splitting of from their strategist and cleaning up pockets of hidden or fleeing troops until they rejoined one another at the gate to the town opposite of the one they had entered.

There, an older-looking man, seeming wearied from combat, awaited them atop a horse that was decorated with purple standards, which stood out against the remaining Liebenese soldiers' red. As he saw them approach, he signaled his men to lower their swords and gestured with his hand to indicate an offer of parley.

The trio approached with small trepidation, though Morgan and Inigo were less shy about coming to the front. Regardless, however, the older man looked to Robin first, "Then... you must be Grandmaster Robin. I recognize you by your cloak."

Robin nodded slowly, "Evidently my name has spread more than I could ever have dreamed."

"Of course," the older man smiled, "Your feats are nothing short of legendary. Rosanne is indeed fortunate to have been granted such an ally. But enough of that, let's be on with the matter at hand."

"Let's," the Grandmaster agreed, "Do you have terms to propose."

"I do," the apparent Liebenese commander nodded, "My men will lay down their arms and vacate the city, myself included, if you'll be willing to allow us to do so without attacking."

Robin nodded wordlessly, "That's simple enough, but I do have one other request."

"Name it," the commander offered with only a slight fall to his smile.

"You lead the garrison of this town, yes? I'd like to have a look at your orders," Robin commanded.

The commander swallowed, "Er, that's... I can't offer that, I'm afraid. General Argent... he'd execute me for certain, you see, if the enemy knew of all our plans."

"'All your plans?'" the Grandmaster repeated with confusion, "Surely your general didn't give you every detail of his strategy in a single order, that would be madness."

"Oh, no," chuckled the commander, "of course not... That would be ridiculous."

"Then may I see the orders you received?" Robin demanded again.

"Er, well, that's..." a bead of sweat appeared on the man's forehead. His eyes widened for a moment, then his smiled returned. "Oh, yes," he called to one of the men gathered around him, "You there, grab that document I told you to safeguard." In a moment, a scroll was retrieved and placed in Robin's hands. An insignia at the top margin of the page declared it to be "From the Stationery of His Highness the Almighty General Argent."

Robin read quickly and found himself disappointed; there was no evidence of the connection he suspected on this page, and his request had been satisfied. He would have to search later, and he would need to let this group go. "Well, thank you for your cooperation, sir. I'll allow you and your men to make your exit, then."

"Thanks be to you as well, good Sir Robin," the commander bowed. He dropped off of his horse to offer his hand to the Grandmaster, "You are as gallant and forceful in person as you are on the battlefield."

Robin, too, offered his hand, but he was halted by Morgan, who leapt between them, "Hold it!"

The commander gritted his teeth, "What is the meaning of this, you impudent little girl?!"

"That 'impudent little girl' is my daughter," the Grandmaster scowled, "What's the matter, Morgan?"

"You didn't notice it," she pointed her finger at the commander, "but he was trying to poison you. He stuck a pin in his cuff, probably laced with any manner of poison, right before he offered his hand."

"I haven't a clue what you're saying, you delusional brat!" growled the commander.

"I recognize the technique," she shook her head, "I've used it before. And if you don't believe me, give me the opportunity to prove it to you." The redheaded thief made a grab for his cuff.

"That was just to keep my sleeves pinned, dear girl," he tried to wrest his arm from her, "Mere presentation, like your silly accusation."

Finally, Morgan withdrew the pin, "Oh? Then why don't you let me prick you with this? If it's not poisoned, it should be no problem, right? Unless you're afraid of a little girl with an ordinary pin."

"I don't have to subject myself to this," he roared, "our terms have been agreed upon!"

"See that, good men of Lieben?" Morgan appealed to the soldiers behind him, "This man is willing to jeopardize your safe retreat for fear of his own life, of making his cowardice known!"

"You little whore!" he snarled, "I ought to gut you like a gods-damn trout!"

"Then you admit it," Robin stepped forward.

The commander looked to each side, seeing his men becoming unsettled, then shouted and swung his sword out of its sheath at the pair. Both father and daughter dodged to opposite sides, withdrew their blades, and cut an X across their enemy, dropping two halves of the former body to the ground. Robin took the opportunity to search the cadaver and retrieved a different scroll, this one emblazoned with the Mark of Grima, although it was slightly altered, probably to represent a more minor family, and read it. This message was the confirmation for which he had been searching.

Inigo read the Grandmaster's face and drew his conclusion, "Good men of Lieben, this man was not your ally; he served another master. I would urge you to leave this battlefield now. If you would still serve your general, we will not pursue you today, but you will never encounter us again if you choose to desert at this time."

The crowd of Liebenese soldiers stood and muttered between themselves for several minutes, forming a vibrating mass of scarlet armor until, eventually, several clusters of troops began to throw off their helmets and walk away. Meanwhile, those that lingered approached Inigo. One among them spoke up, "Sir, we offer our sincerest apologies for attacking your men. As you can tell, we were manipulated into believing these orders were those of General Argent... As a whole, I no longer know what to believe."

Inigo nodded empathetically, "If this was the case for you, I'm certain other Liebenese were likewise deceived."

"But," another soldier spoke up, "Surely General Argent still wanted war with Rosanne. That much he proclaimed for himself."

Robin shook his head, "I suspect there is much nuance to whatever little plot brought you against us here today. All the same, I think it would be appropriate for us to continue on. General Argent still wants his fight, and as of yet, I see no choice but to give it to him."

"Sir," the Liebenese soldier implored, "I would ask that you check into the power structure of our remaining forces... If what you demonstrated today holds true for other factions, honest men may be doing work contrary to their general's orders, and that would devastate them, so contrary to their nature. Please, give the Liebenese a chance to fight for those they truly believe in."

Robin nodded and Inigo thanked the man, giving him a firm pat on the shoulder. The remaining group slowly abandoned their helmets and marched over the nearby hill.

"Nice work today, team," Robin sighed contentedly, wiping the blood and sweaty hair out of his face.

"You looked so commanding just then, Inigo," Morgan lauded, hugging him tightly, "My handsome prince."

"All in a day's work, milady," he puffed out his chest and flashed his white teeth, "Your work in preventing your father's assassination was equally remarkable. You're an amazingly perceptive woman."

Robin rolled his eyes and moved away from the swooning couple, suddenly ending up in the arms of his other daughter. "Hey daddy. Everything okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm just fine," he smiled.

"I'll be the judge of that," she traced her hands all along his skin to check for wounds.

Gerome and his wyvern settled down to the ground with fantastic applause from his father, who was also emerging from the back of the waiting army.

* * *

The general sat silently in his room, resting his cheek on his fist. His eyes were half-closed as the pale light of midday streamed in, periwinkle, through the open window, pushing in a cool breeze that made the grass sway slowly in the same manner as did waves. He was disturbed from this reverie by a flapping of wings and a loud caw that made him lift his head. "Ah," he noticed the raven perching itself on the windowsill, "Back so soon, Naesala?"

The ebony bird squawked loudly, flitting its wings for emphasis.

"Is that so?" the Silver Soldier contemplated, "You're sure?"

The beast craned its neck to one side and squawked again.

"Then things are proceeding faster than I thought," he paused a moment to collect his thoughts, then smiled, "I always was a fan of the blitzkrieg, but I never thought I would be in a position where I could pull it off. How wonderfully interesting."

Naesala cawed once more and fluttered to his master's side. Argent offered his hand and the large bird took the seed that was clasped therein.

"Continue to observe this occurrence for me, and tell me of any major developments, understand?" ordered Argent.

The bird squawked again and flapped off out the window once more.

"Datura, you twisted bastard, now what's your game?" muttered the general, sitting back and closing his eyes.

* * *

The leaf-green-haired man pulled out a stool and sat up, placing his hands out on the bar and commanded some rum. He took a sip and sat back, sighing to himself, it tasted like swill, of course. This was a port town; all the good liquor was exported to the mainland, to the big cities with rich investors. The men here, with their bandanas and torn shirts covered in greasy spots, they were as good to their employers as sardines to a tuna fisherman. And that was why he hated port towns.

But, of course, it would figure that a port town was exactly where he had to sit and wait for these sorry bastards to appear. He thought of her, that woman, with her long, flowing red hair and the wisdom in her eyes. She looked a bright girl, to he sure, but could she really be married to that exalted tactician? Of the stories he'd heard, her personality seemed entirely incongruous to his, but then, she had been reserved, unwilling to trust a stranger, and that was wise. He shrugged his shoulders and took another swig of his awful rum, hoping for the day he could meet the man himself.

That was the day Nihilus was waiting for, too. The Storm Blade had no idea why, but that had been the ardent desire of his commander for ages. Maybe a desire to challenge the legend, like himself, or maybe Nihilus just hated competition. Either way, that obsession was what had led poor Cyrus into this crappy tavern with its shoddy, rotting wood tables and dirt floor, surrounded by the sailors in their busted shoes and torn, sorry clothes... this was all his fault. Cyrus took another drink.

Thinking of the redheaded woman, and of Nihilus, his thoughts again drifted to Dahlia, the only individual among their number who had ever earned a rank equal to his own, but he had never really seen the rose-haired woman fight. She could whip a blade around like a dancer's ribbon, sure, but he had never seen her in real combat, face-to-face, where the enemy moved around, bled, spit, swore, bit, and clawed in retaliation. Cyrus wondered what his commander saw in the girl, but he knew better than to question Nihilus's judgment; the man had a head for foresight that was enough to make the Storm Blade's head spin. All these intricate plots... Cyrus couldn't be bothered to keep all of his associates' affairs in mind, so he left the planning to Nihilus and acted as a soldier and spy, as he was asked.

But, he reminded himself, he was smarter than the blind oxen Nihilus had under his boot like Arc, that fool. Cyrus was intelligent enough to complete missions his own way and act just a little outside the parameters as to do the work without risk to himself, and that was what had earned Nihilus's admiration. So Cyrus believed, at least.

Waves were lapping loudly at the shore as the tide came in, the somber violets of evening lowering themselves into the backdrop of the crystal blue of the ocean and sky. It would be a bit before that crew arrived from the shores of Regna Ferox, before he could strike them all down and laugh in the glorified tactician's face when he revealed that he'd killed his family... Until that time, he would have to wait in this shitty port town, drinking this swill and eating day-old fish while sailors yelled at each other in the hellish heat of day. He groaned and rolled his eyes: he was going to kill them even harder for every day he was forced to sit around this dust bin.

"'Scuze me," a voice drawled languidly. A woman took up the stood beside him and smiled, "How are you doin', honey?"

The man with the leaf-green hair smiled back, "Not much better for being here, if I'm honest."

She laughed, loudly. In fact, so loud that 'guffawed' might have been a better term. After her chuckle, she continued, "You don' need ta tell me, honey. But you might tell me what a handsome boy like you's doin' all the way out here in the sticks. Shouldn't you be going to balls with girls in fancy dresses an' 'at?"

"I'm waiting on some folk, yes," he tapped his fingers on the bar.

"Oh, I get it," she smirked sagely, "You've got some princess crossin' the high seas in her little white dress so you can meet her and kiss 'er on the beach."

"I'm not spoken for," he rebutted, drinking from his glass and quickly regretting it; filth had collected in the bottom of the glass.

"Really?" this prompted a bigger grin, "Well, if you'd like some less shitty drink, I've got a bottle o' whiskey from a distillery in the south of Valm, tastes like butter and applewood goin' down."

"Sold," he grinned, letting her take hold of his arm. Maybe port towns weren't all bad.

* * *

He lifted the tent flap and peered in, doing his very best not to make a sound. He smiled contentedly as he saw his little girl wrapped tightly in her blanket, tucking her knees to keep warm, the way she always had. This was the only time she let her hair flow free, instead of constantly micromanaging it, and it glistened in loose, wiry bands, but still curled playfully at every end, some of it sticking in her soft cheeks, just short of her nose and eyes. He never knew how she got to sleep like that. Satisfied, the Grandmaster let the tent close up again. He would have liked to visit Morgan, too, but there was no way he was going to risk entering her tent with that flirt of a prince courting her day and night. Instead, he collected himself in the crisp night air, simply contemplating for a moment.

A voice broke his concentration, however, "Nice night, isn't it?"

"That voice..." he hesitated to turn around, "But... you can't be..."

"I'm not, I'm afraid," answered the woman who had sauntered up behind him, "So you told me once yourself."

Robin pivoted, "I'm not sure I take your meaning."

"There was a time..." she explained weakly, "You must have been told of it. A time wherein a fate... both similar and dissimilar transpired..."

"I'm not used to hearing that voice talk in riddles," the Grandmaster replied simply.

"I'm sorry, I don't like it either," she breathed, "We- that is, I can't afford to allow... plans to be known. Sorry, if I told you, it would mess everything up."

"I understand," he chuckled quickly, "I've been there." The woman waited a moment longer and simply watched the man as he stood and considered her a bit more. "But... if that's the case, why come before me at all? Is there some 'presage' you wish to share with me?"

"No..." she looked down to the ground, "Forgive me, I've been presumptuous, but... well... I did live around you for quite some time..." The woman was blushing brightly.

"O-Oh," he began to understand, "I see... I don't mean to offend, but..."

"I know," her head drooped, "It wouldn't feel right. As a matter of fact, in my case, it might feel especially wrong. You said the same thing then, too. I can appreciate your dedication to her. I just... I can't help but feel..." They stared at each other a few minutes longer in the silence of night, "Naga dammit, this is awkward. Sorry I don't have any big speech prepared, I just couldn't help myself, I really wanted to see you. Especially to see you so different, so much happier, than when I knew you."

Robin rubbed the back of his neck trying to hide his own blush, "Sorry to have disappointed you."

"No," she held her chest, "I knew it would be like this; I didn't expect anything back from you. It's enough just to see you again. Just do me a favor and try to smile a whole lot, okay?"

He complied immediately, "I'll do my best. I guess I have to see what's in the cards."

"The cards?" she scoffed, "Baby, I'm the one holding all the cards, and the house always wins this game. I've made sure of it."

"I hope you're right," he nodded.

She looked to each side and breathed, "Well, I hope this wasn't all too weird for you. Kudos for taking it as well as you did. Just... be careful, and, like I said, be smiling. As long as you do that, I've done enough. And I hope you don't mind if..." The woman pecked his cheek quickly, "A girl can be greedy sometimes, can't she? Stay safe, a-all right?"

"I've got it," he nodded, contemplating her blushing face, "Anna."

The woman threw her hood back over her long ponytail and hopped into the canopy of trees.


	18. You Really Got Me

"Guard..." Chrom moaned ignobly, clutching the steel bar before him with one hand and his stomach with the other.

"Oh, please, would someone come here? My poor husband," Olivia added, holding his shoulder.

A woman with flowing pink hair strode in. The pair recognized her as one of Nihilus's subordinates. Her face was severe, "What do you want? Your braying will wake my master, and that would displease me very much."

Olivia took point, "We're ever so sorry, good lady, but my husband... he's feeling quite ill all of a sudden. He desperately needs some medicine."

"And perhaps the toilet, if you'd be so kind," the exalt winced.

The swordswoman rolled her eyes, "How stupid do you think I am? I'm a general in Lord Nihilus's army; I can't be fooled so easily."

"What do you mean?" Chrom gritted his teeth, "I... I really feel ill..."

Dahlia tapped her foot, "Not my problem. Go on, then, o mighty exalt. Defecate in front of your wife and maybe I'll consider letting you clean yourself up."

Chrom grimaced and sat back down, sighing aloud.

"Don't waste my time again, you Ylissean filth," she sneered at him.

"Wait," Olivia outstretched her hand.

"Now what?" the Rose Blade sighed, "Are you 'suddenly' ill as well?"

"No," Olivia bowed, "but something is troubling me..."

"Take it up with someone who cares," Dahlia made for the door.

"Something about you." Against her better senses, Dahlia paused before the door and turned around, walking back up to the queen of Ylisse as she pressed herself against the bars of her cell. She opened her hand and looked into Olivia's eyes to signal that she may continue. "Something on your face... doesn't sit right. The face you wear isn't your own. Is something distressing you? Are you being coerced? Is Nihilus... is he-"

Olivia was cut off with a sharp slap to her cheek. The Rose Blade glared with flame-filled eyes at the Ylissean queen and withdrew her hand slowly, "Mind yourself. You have no right to speak to me or my master with that tone."

Olivia fell onto her rear and rubbed the red spot on her face in dull shock, her eyes focused on nothing. Her husband stood and walked in front of her, lowering his eyes to the opposing general, "I don't take kindly to people laying hands on my wife."

"I am sorry, Exalt Chrom," she declared in a tone that said the opposite, "Perhaps if you had wed a creature less sniveling and spineless, this problem would not have befallen you. I hope you'll know better than to annoy me next time." With an exhausted sigh, the Rose Blade excused herself.

Chrom cupped his wife's cheek, "Are you all right, Olivia?"

"I'm fine," she gave up rubbing the mark, "It's that woman who's suffering... the look in her eyes is confusing... scary. It's even a little familiar, somehow..." The queen eventually trailed off.

"I knew that would have been too easy," Chrom cursed, pushing meaninglessly at the ground, "We have to use a more sophisticated plan of escape."

"I... have some thoughts," Olivia began to blush, "but I don't know how much you'll like them."

He raised an eyebrow, "No, I don't think we need to resort to something like that... we can find another way... We're clever enough..."

Olivia nodded her assent, but then drooped onto his shoulder, "All the same, I find myself a bit lacking for ideas right now."

"Should worst come to worst, we can always start digging," he suggested with a weak smile. Olivia reciprocated the gesture and hugged his shoulder. Her husband had always been her source of strength; he was everything she wished she could be: determined, strong, confident, decisive, and, above all, clearly unashamed. She smiled when she remembered how he would drag himself out of bed, still in his plainclothes, to attend meetings with Ylisse's gentry, scoffing at their particular dress. She remembered how her face flared up when he would send her flirtatious looks across the tables as she served their guests coffee, how he would grab her hand as she walked by, and whisper a joke into her ear. The politicians would look at him with stern glares, like impatient lecturers, and he would throw out an apology before going right back to what he had been doing. He was a little rough around the edges, but Chrom was exactly what Ylisse needed in an exalt; Olivia couldn't imagine any of these stuffed-shirts running the nation with the same authority as her husband.

And then there was Robin, but that was another matter entirely. A complex one. Robin had always been a...

"Son of a bitch!"

Olivia lifted her head to see Chrom already listening intently; a tremulous eruption had moved the floor beneath them with that earlier vocalization accompanying it. Chrom rose suddenly, and Olivia did the same; the stone floor suddenly became hot. That heat was quickly replaced with an odd, smoky scent, consistent with the burning of oil. The pair listened for more feedback and heard droves of footsteps moving to the level below them. A few indistinct mutterings came out through the floor; it seemed they were asking what had happened, but neither Chrom nor Olivia could understand the frenzied description of events.

Just at that moment, there came a quick rattling, followed by the door to the prison being opened. "Heh, simpletons. A little misdirection is all it takes," a figure whose face was obscured by a red hood pushed through the door, brushing dirt of its shoulder.

Chrom approached the figure first, "What was that all about? Did it have something to do with you?"

The figure paused and stood parallel to the exalt before replying, "What do you think, genius?"

"Are you hear for... us?" the exalt guessed.

"No, I thought I'd grab some milk and maybe an apricot or two- of course I'm here for you!" shouted the figure, "And I don't have time for twenty questions, so can we make this brief?"

"Right," Chrom nodded, "What's your plan?"

"Grab your wife and that bedsheet," the figure indicated, pointing to the lone garment on the cot where Chrom and Olivia had been forced to sleep, "I'm going to lower you out a window."

"That sheet's nowhere near long enough for us to safely reach the ground," Olivia protested, "Not from any of these windows."

They saw a smirk beneath the figure's hood, "Not exactly what I meant."

The trio hurried out of the hallway, hearing another thunder of footsteps making a dramatic procession to the upper floor. The figure received them as they began to climb up onto the windowsill. "So, what is your plan, then?" Chrom gripped one side of the sheet and Olivia gripped the other, as instructed.

"Hold on tight," commanded the figure, "I'm going to creatively employ some wind magic."

"What?!" Chrom nearly swallowed his tongue as he felt gripped by a sudden coldness, staring out at the long fall below them. Olivia watched his panicked eyes; her husband had shown an aversion to high places since she had met him, particularly at the prospect of standing atop them, but this was to confirm all his fears.

"Just don't let go," instructed the figure, "It'll work, I promise."

"I hate this plan," the exalt groaned before being thrown out the window, screaming, by a quick gust.

"You are going to sincerely wish you hadn't done that," the Rose Blade drew her sword at the hooded figure as she ascended the staircase.

The figure chuckled, "Sounds like fun, but I can't stick around to play with you, hon."

"You think I'll let you get away?" Dahlia leered as she pointed her weapon.

"I don't think you have a choice," in a fluid motion, the figure removed a tome from its pocket and summoned another gale, throwing soldiers left and right. Dahlia, however, planted her feet firmly into the carpet, scarcely budging. "Ooh, tough one," the figure mused, "it really would have been fun, but I gotta go." Another tome came out and a missile of fire was lobbed at the Rose Blade. She dodged it, but it singed the ends of her long hair as it passed by and scorched the castle wall. The hood of the figure fluttered in the wind as it swept past the pink-haired woman and skated out the door. Dahlia didn't rise from her knees, but simply pounded the floor with a grimace.

* * *

"Hear ye, hear ye," the man at the front of the Feroxi party recited mechanically, looking into the eyes of the archers that were standing atop the palace, pointing their arrows downward, "We approach on official business, a decree to be delivered to West-Khan Lon'qu directly from the hand of East-Khan Vlasis the Goodhearted."

Lon'qu looked at his guests, followed by his wife and rolled his eyes, hearing the voice from inside the stone walls. "They give that boy a new title every time I hear his name."

"Lon'qu! Go not into the clutches of thine enemy, for it is most surely a trap!" Owain shouted, "Of course, all the best heroes get out of traps like that no problem, so maybe you should let it play out so you can show off... Hmm, decisions..."

"The boy exaggerates," Panne stated the obvious, "and yet, I do smell foulness in the air."

"I smell it too," Yarne added.

"Yarne, didn't you smell 'foulness' when I asked you to dust the dining hall last week, too?" Lon'qu leered at his son.

"Well, can you blame me? Those statues are pure evil..." he quivered.

"I will be cautious," Lon'qu rose from his throne, "but if the East Khanate demands parley, I must respond. Lissa, Donnel, Owain, Cynthia; this is not your fight, and they may even be looking for you, so hide yourselves."

"Pardon, Lon'qu," Donnel objected, "but why would they be lookin' fer us?"

"They could easily make up something about harboring fugitives, or like nonsense. Just hide yourselves for now and you'll be safe," he answered.

That seemed to satisfy the group, and they were ushered into a back room by a guard. Lon'qu approached and opened the door with Panne at his side and Yarne behind them both.

Already the scene appeared strange: there were more guards present than a typical escort party, and, in fact, these men hardly seemed like guards at all. They wore thick armor and held swords, lances, and axes, as well as a few bows, and further, they stood in columns behind their commander. Lon'qu addressed the crowd, their eyes fixated intently on him, "What is your decree?"

"Let it be known," the man who stood in front of the "guards" began, as a robed figure moved forward to his side, "that the West Khanate has sent spies to infiltrate the inner workings of the government of the East Khanate."

"That is not true," Lon'qu rejected, staring at them firmly.

"Khan Vlasis has made this decree," the man answered simply, "there is no fact to be disputed. The infraction of espionage against one's own countrymen is a serious offense, one punishable by death. This crime also shows an egregious lack of trust on the part of the West Khan." At this point, the man began to breathe more laboredly, stumbling over his words at points and losing his official tone. Members of the crowd appeared to be sweating beneath their helmets. "As such," he eventually continued, "East-Khan Vlasis the Goodhearted has deemed it proper that the entirety of the East Khanate... declare war on the West."

A shock of murmurs spread through the crowd, as if the soldiers themselves had been partly unaware.

"I think that is a serious mistake," Lon'qu leered, "for both our provinces. Why is Khan Vlasis not here so that I may discuss the matter with him directly?"

"The order is signed by Khan Vlasis," the man at the front swallowed, "Ergo, his presence is unnecessary."

Lon'qu folded his arms, "What are your terms, precisely?"

But he was cut off, "Eek! Dad, help!"

"Sniveling little wretch," snarled the robed figure, restraining Yarne.

Lon'qu's gaze sliced through the crowd, "You! Unhand my son, villain!"

"This little half-breed vermin that you call your 'son...'" the robed man protested, "Just attempted to attack me, clandestinely and preemptively!" Another wave of murmurs through the crowd.

"He would never," retorted Lon'qu, recapturing everyone's attention.

"Well, I say he has," grunted the old man restraining Yarne, "and whose word do you think this crowd will believe?"

"You there," Lon'qu pointed to the man who stood in front of the soldiers, "Tell your man to stand down."

"I am... not his superior," the announcer conceded frankly.

The robed man wrestled with the frightened taguel, "It would appear to me that Khan Lon'qu's own heir just attempted to take the life of a man of the East Khanate... With that in mind, I think our men know very well what to do."

Lon'qu scanned the crowd with extreme rapidity; they certainly did know, but for now they all clutched their weapons and swallowed, staring straight ahead. Sweat made trails along many a forehead as the troops' armor became stuck to their skin with the building perspiration. Despite it being winter in Regna Ferox, it was hot as hell right here. A few of Lon'qu's personal detail now began to filter out of the palace doors, having overheard the proclamation and screams. They, too, stifled their breathing as they stared out at their brethren.

"Now," Lon'qu projected his voice, "There's no need for such rash action. East Khan Vlasis must be a sensible man, even if I've never met him. Only allow me a moment to discuss this colossal misunderstanding and I will-"

Before he could finish, a boot shuffled in the crowd and a hooded man leapt forward. Lon'qu recognized his garb as that of an assassin, only too late, as the knife slid between his ribs. "Death to the West Khan!" the man shouted in Lon'qu's face, dropping him to the ground. Guards swarmed the attacker immediately afterward, turning him into a porcupine with their blades and lances. Outraged easterners leapt onto the platform after him, striking back at the western guards. Yarne shook himself free of the robed man's grasp and hopped into his transformation in a single move, landing with a thunderous shockwave that flung the easterners away from his father's cadaver. "No...!" he screamed tremulously.

The fighting ignored his presence: westerners bearing axes charged at the eastern mob and were quickly torn to shreds by mercenaries wielding swords. Still, they crashed against the line, some of their own swordsmen making impacts as they brought up the rear. Eastern pikemen were not far behind, however, and impaled the westerners as quickly as they moved forward.

Yarne clutched his father in his hard claws, his long ears twitching to each side feverishly. He looked to the advancing soldiers for help, but his fellow Feroxi stormed right past. Panne burst through the doorway already transformed and saw her son with her husband in his paws. She bent her head and joined her son for a moment, then bared her teeth at the crowd. "I will make you suffer for attacking my warren, man-spawn!" She hopped down among the crowd and swatted away a line of easterners with a feral growl.

"Kill it!" screamed the easterners, "Kill the monster!" Soon the easterners were striking at Panne repeatedly, spotting her fur with dripping brown patches as their swords drew blood. Still, she swiped and bit at them, eliciting frightened yelps as more and more attackers piled onto her.

Yarne felt his blood freeze. "No, no, no...!" he cried lowly. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real. Waking up this morning he had had muffins. He had no idea why he recalled that now, but... blueberry muffins. And he had complimented his mother on finding them and seen her smile in that vaguely dismissive way that she professed her love, with just the tiniest grin. With a big gulp of his drink, his father made an offhand remark about them, too, and then Panne pretended not to be interested. And now they were dying.

And now he would die.

Quivering at that thought, Yarne did the only thing that constituted any logical sense in his mind: he fled. Tearing up tufts of snow with kicks of his large back legs, the taguel fled into the snow, not considering once where he was going, just fading into the gray of the horizon.

Lissa bit her lip as she pressed herself against the wall for support. Her husband returned, hanging his head. Lissa felt pressure shutting her lips, but pushed past it, "What... What is it, Donny?"

"Lissa..." his eyes were uncharacteristically dark, "We gotta get lost, fast." Owain saw his father's grave face and decided not to ask, opting instead to wrap his hand around Cynthia's and lead her, behind his parents, out of the palace.

The sounds of metal clashing filled the air for what seemed to be hours as the group plodded heavily through the piles of snow, faces growing red from the burning of the icy winds and feet going numb as more and more snow soaked their shoes, but they kept running until they found a clearing on a high hill, still hearing faint sounds of a scuffle past the muffling of the powdery ground. When it seemed they had a moment's peace, Donnel dropped himself to the ground, joined shortly by the remainder of his small party. Solemnly, he adjusted the pot on his head as it sank over his eyes. "Hells, Lissa... Lon'qu was a good feller. Real good. I know he'd never'a hurt nobody, so why did they attack him like that?"

Lissa frowned deeply, affected by her husband's downtrodden stare, "Who knows? Politics make for all kinds of danger... No one is always happy with their ruler, and, sometimes, people do things... violent things to make the world better suit them. It just... happens."

That didn't seem to placate the villager, "'Happens,' huh? So we just gotta take that people will be killed as a fact o' life? Even people near and dear to us... they gotta die just because ambitious guys decide that that's the way it hasta be? ...I guess I just don't understand nobility, Lis, but... That don't make a lick o' sense to me."

Lissa sighed and dropped her head, too, staring at the snow. The wind blew at their faces again.

* * *

The ship groaned lowly as a larger wave swayed it at a more severe angle than was typical, forcing Steven to clutch the railing to avoid falling over. That didn't seem to affect the ship's captain much, however, as he walked in front of the orator and effectively changed hands; he assumed the position at the ship's wheel, muttering something that sounded like "clumsy big-city arse."

Steven knew better than to be upset by the griping of others, of course, and smiled pleasantly to himself as he descended the staircase, intent on finding something to eat. Their voyage hadn't been long, but they also hadn't packed much in the way of provisions, presuming the haste of said voyage. As the silver-haired man traipsed slowly below decks, he found his mother pushing the door to her cabin open (Steven and his brother had opted to bunk together so as to give their mother her privacy). She wiped her eyes, but it didn't seem as if she had been crying. Perhaps she had just taken a nap.

In either case, Steven greeted her with a warm smile, "Hullo, mother. How fare you?"

Whatever expression had been on her face before was quickly replaced with a more typical sarcastic smirk, "Steve, honey, you know you can drop that 'How fare you' nonsense with me."

"Only trying to be polite," his clinical smile didn't waver.

"So, what brings you down here, kiddo?" his mother straightened her collar absentmindedly.

"I was looking for a bit of food," he replied, "curse my shortsightedness... I really should have prepared more for all this."

"Don't be so hard on yourself, hon," she rubbed his shoulder, "It was short notice."

"All the same," he frowned, "I'd be more ready to forgive myself if we still had at least two loaves to rub together."

Anna paused and cocked an eyebrow, "I think you mixed your metaphors somewhere in there."

"Drat," he sighed, "Now this hunger is forcing me to lose my one asset. Well, at least I still have my dashing good looks."

Anna laughed, "Well hey, I have a bit of fruit that was going nowhere left in my inventory. I'm sure it's still fresh, but I don't know if it's any good."

"That reminds me," he paused, "I know business is important to you, mother, but did we really have to bring that _entire_ pile of gold? It weighs as much as three extra passengers."

The smile disappeared from Anna's face as she narrowed her eyes at her son, "Steven? What is my answer to all questions involving the import of finance and gold?"

Steven swallowed, realizing his mistake, and bowed quickly, "Sorry, mother. Perhaps we could have a bit of that fruit together now?"

She brightened up, "Why, I think that's a splendid idea, lovely son of mine."

Steven watched her warily, then followed her into the cabin from which she had emerged, looking down as she pointed to a crate on the floor. Steven opened it and procured the fruit (Anna couldn't remember the names; she had gotten them from some exotic tropical island and was prepared to sell them with that marquee alone, but it hadn't worked). The silver-haired orator seemed pleased with the haul and bundled the fruits up in his arms, carrying them out onto the deck.

"What are you going to do with all those, honey?" Anna trailed behind him, "Shouldn't we save some?"

"I have an idea, if you can find me a pan somewhere," he smiled, "I think I'll try to make something like a fricassee with these, except there'll be no meat, but I will be able to saute a few of them and smother it in the juice of these... It will keep longer and taste better, I promise."

"Frica-who?" Anna shrugged, "Fine, I trust you, sweetie, gimme just a minute..."

True to her word, in about a minute, Anna returned, producing some cast-iron cookware. Steven took the pan and placed it on a barrel before whipping a small knife out of his pocket and dicing up the fruit.

Anna peered at the knife, "Since when do you..."

"It's only for emergencies," he grinned slyly, "Politics is sometimes more dangerous than warfare, dear mother."

Dropping the fruit matter into the pan, the silver-haired man snapped his fingers, clutching a tome beneath his cloak, and sparked up a quick, but raging fire that made the pan radiate heat; the fruit began to sizzle and pop immediately, oozing a sweet nectar that filled the immediate airspace with its scent. Anna sniffed it and licked her lips dreamily. Then she paused for another moment, "When did you learn how to cook like this? I know I didn't teach you? Did your father?"

"Father could cook a decent steak or breast of chicken, but he knew nothing of the finer arts," the orator smiled.

"So, when?" Anna insisted.

Steven hesitated a moment before sheepishly turning around to his mother, "The ladies of Rosanne have very particular tastes..."

Anna blushed and looked down at the floor of the deck, then back up, "My son the lover-boy. When did this happen? Weren't you always _so_ busy with writing your speeches and planning this and that maneuver and whatever else?"

" _Ma certo_ ," he nodded, "But, as it turns out, there are some lovely young ladies who don't find the court all that thrilling, and find the notion of a handsome, young, foreign dignitary very exciting..."

The merchant smiled ironically at her son, "So where do you fit in?"

"Very funny," he copied her tone, "If you don't want to hear about my exploits, don't ask."

His mother waited pensively before she decided to ask, "So... have you had many... 'lovers?'"

"Oh, only a few," he relaxed, sighing contentedly as he thought of them.

"And what about, what was it, 'Sophie?'" Anna continued.

"Ah, _ma belle dame d'or_..." Steven mused wistfully, "She's the most recent, and, hopefully, the last."

"Really?" Anna folded her arms, "Retiring so early?"

"You almost sound disappointed," he answered.

"I almost thought my son was a respectable man," she tapped her foot.

"I'm very respectable. The girls love me, and the men respect that the girls love me," he grinned broadly, "Not to mention I'm the best there is at my job."

"And what happened to all your humility?" Anna continued, "I'm starting to think I don't even know who you are anymore."

That made him frown a little, "I'm the same man, mother, but I'm a bit consumed by worldly passions. Is that not comprehensible?"

"Just... let's not talk about your love life anymore," his mother shook her head.

"Done," he began to fan the heat of the pan away with a bit of wind magic before mumbling, "You were the one who brought it up, anyway..."

* * *

It was another day of marching for the group. Fortunately, there was no heat to complain about under their piles of vestments, various levels of armor, and burdens of weapons. Of course, the lack of heat meant the opposite problem, as more than a few of the troops, in addition to those leading the pack, found themselves shivering, despite their thick apparel, as the steel clouds of Lieben seemed never to part, giving the craggy landscape a dull bluish or purplish hue. Robin reacehd up to his face and slapped his cheeks a bit to ensure the blood continued to flow to them.

Sylvia wasn't far behind him, "Holding up okay, daddy?"

He smiled, "I'm your father, not your grandpa, Sylvia. I can withstand a little cold."

"And I'm your daughter, so permit me to worry," she answered. He nodded.

"I say, Sir Robin," Virion was catching up to them, "I wanted to ask you something, if I may."

"Be my guest."

"What was in that letter you discovered? The one you took from that scoundrel leading the enemy at the last town."

"It was a set of orders from a different general, someone outside of Valm. Might've been Plegian, looking at the insignia on it. He referred to himself as 'Lord Datura.' He'll probably be the next person I confront on my little list of conspirators for this incident."

"But, is that not marvelous news? Can we not tell General Argent he has been deceived, and use that as justification to end this silly war?"

The Grandmaster shook his head heavily, "I only wish we could, but I know men of General Argent's ilk; he wont' concede that he's been fooled. Or, even if he will, he would still want your head; that's the 'honorable' thing to do, finish the fight."

"Still, is it not worth the attempt?" Virion begged.

"I'll tell you what," Robin frowned, "If you want to take that news to General Argent and see if he'll relent on the day we march up to Lieben Keep, you can do that. I'll let you tell me if it was worthwhile after that's done."

Virion lowered his eyes to the ground and sighed. Sylvia frowned at her father, as well.

"Daddy, you couldn't have given him even the slightest hope?" his daughter mewled.

"I'm sorry, Sylvie," he breathed, "but I'm just... tired. Tired of the fighting, tired of 'honor...' tired of all this. I've been through this all once before, and I just can't believe it's happening again... I want there to be some way that I can change it, but no one's ever willing. Fight, fight, kill, kill... it's the answer to everything..."

The performer stared at her father, then simply buried her head in her cloak, feeling a little too depressed to concoct a reply.

"But not for you," he tacked on, finding a note of light in his voice, "You kids... well, you're all good kids, really good. You and your brothers and sister are better folk than half the people I've met in my entire life. You have a chance... you can change this world better than an old man like me. They'll listen to you, someone with a fresh face and ideas to match... Even that fool Inigo, he'll make a good prince for his country."

"Father," Sylvia picked her head up, "Where's all this coming from?"

"I'm giving you the slightest hope," he said with a wry smile.

"Lieben Keep isn't far, is it?" Sylvia asked, knowing the answer.

"No," Robin became grounded, "We'll have to make ourselves ready. There may be a few skirmishes ahead, but... Well, I shouldn't have to tell you that when we meet with General Argent, things will get violent."

"But we'll be prepared, won't we?" she smiled with a show of confidence.

"Only if you keep training. Don't lose your edge, sweetheart," he kissed her forehead, despite a brief protest.

Morgan and Inigo matched each other's stride, strolling a few feet ahead and to the left of her father. The latter had his eyes uncharacteristically concentrated sharply on the horizon before them. "Something the matter, Inigo?" his wife slowly wrapped her hands around his arm, pulling herself in close.

His brow jumped up and he turned to face the redheaded thief, "Hm? Oh, sorry, I was lost in thought. What did you say?"

"I was wondering if something was wrong," she repeated.

"No," he shook his head, "nothing. I was just thinking about those Liebenese we passed by... Do you think we did the right thing for them?"

"What do you mean?" Morgan cocked her head to the side.

"I mean... Should we have let them go? If they return to Argent, they'll probably just be killed later, and on their own they might starve or become lost," the prince began to frown to himself.

Morgan grabbed his shoulder, "I think I hear a bit of your father peeking through, Inigo. It's not like you to moralize like this."

"Whatever it is," he groaned, "I don't like it. I haven't been able to get my mind off it since we left."

"Just... take a deep breath, or something," Morgan patted his back softly, "My handsome prince can endure anything if he just keeps a clear head."

Inigo bowed and smiled, "You're too kind, Lady Morgan."

"Anything I can do to help," she reciprocated, "Er, but, if you don't mind, maybe I'll just leave you to your thoughts for a bit? I kind of want to talk to my dad about our strategy a little..."

"Of course," he grinned, "you need some kind of stimulation for that brain of yours, and Naga knows you won't find it here."

She hugged him, "I won't be long, I promise. Any talk with my father is going to be brief."

Inigo nodded and let her go, then gripped the hilt of his sword and began to stare out at the horizon again. Lieben still looked blue, covered by the clouds.

* * *

Chrom and his wife panted profusely as they scaled the hill, collapsing into seated positions on the dry grass. Chrom bent his head and wiped some of the dirt from his face as the pair stared forward; the fortress was only a small grayish stain on their horizon now, they were finally free. In a fit of relief, Olivia quickly grabbed her husband and held him tightly, elciting a warm smile and a return of the embrace.

"You know we still have to keep moving, right?" he breathed lowly.

"Yes," she did the same, "but... it's fine, so long as we're out of there. I'd rather my legs fall clean off that sit in that dungeon a moment more."

Chrom nodded, and lay back on the hillside to catch his breath. After only a second, however, he jumped back up, "Robin! Gods, Olivia, I wonder what's happened to Robin? I want to find him quickly... ah, but, Lucina and Ylisstol... hells..."

"I wouldn't worry too much, Chrom," his wife mewled, "I mean, I'm concerned about Robin as well, but it seems like he can take care of himself, doesn't it?"

"I know," replied her husband with a weighty sigh, "but I'd never want him to think I abandoned him, especially since Anna and their children might still be in danger... there are so many questions about the halidom that I need answered right away..."

"Surely, though," Olivia coughed, "we won't find those answers worrying ourselves sick. We have to trust that our allies-and our family-can manage things until we reach them... right?"

The exalt nodded, "All the same, I don't want to waste a second finding Lucina. Inigo too."

His wife nodded her assent, but breathed heavily, "Me too... but, I'm a bit worn out from our escape. Maybe... maybe just tonight we could find an inn or somewhere to camp?"

He took hold of her hand an scolded himself for his impatience, "Of course. Yes, of course, Olivia. We'll find somewhere to stay the night, then make our move in the morning. I just pray these... mercenaries, whoever they are, I hope they don't have any way of finding us."

"I don't think anyone's connections run that deep," Olivia contributed, "As long as we keep our distance, I think we'll be safe."

Chrom nodded, more confidently this time, having caught his breath. It showed in his voice when he stood and pulled his wife up, "Come, Olivia. We've got to protect our halidom, just as we did years before."

"I'm by your side," she bowed, "Just like before."

And following their plans, Chrom and Olivia walked over miles of plains in the dry air of... somewhere on the continent of Valm, Chrom was sure of that much, until the cool and blue-black of dawn began to wash slowly over the landscape, prompting a few shivers from Olivia, a sign to her husband that they needed to find shelter immediately. And that was how the exalt and his bride ended up sleeping in a small hay-stuffed wooden bed in a proportionately small village, whose people were mostly unintelligible, but friendly.

As they entered their room, Chrom lay his wife down on the bed and she sighed with slight contentment and relief. Chrom himself sat on the edge of the bed for a moment and stared through the window at the moon, luminous in the sapphire sky, as if waiting for something. "Naga," he told the window, "I know I've never been a praying man... but you showed yourself once to me before, and I have all the faith in the world, now. I would ask you... keep my son and daughter safe, please. Watch over them, and protect them as your scions, your very own son and daughter, born of the blood of our convenant with you... and while I know doctrine states that he is a sinner, diametrically opposed to you, I hope you can see to it to protect Robin and his family as well. They say to forgive is divine, after all, don't they? Bah, but I'm merely rambling to the stars now..."

The exalt started a moment as he felt his wife's palm land over his. He had figured she had fallen straight asleep, but now he was blushing, unsure how much of his little prayer she had heard. Resigning himself, the blue-haired lord lay back in the bed beside his wife, pressing her close. Lucina and Inigo were strong kids, they could handle anything. He was becoming increasingly more certain of that. Robin, however... Robin was a special case. Robin had gotten more frail in his old age, and, to the best of Chrom's knowledge, he had foresworn violence. He recalled seeing him there, in his tiny villa out on the hills, without his cloak, but with the warmest smile he'd ever seen. Robin was dressed like a damned scullery maid (Chrom recalled having made a jeer similar to that), but it was the happiest he'd ever seemed, rooting around for weeds in a little garden. And Anna had appeared shortly after, and his eyes sparkled, giving her a kiss at their greeting, and then, of course, Morgan had burst out of the door wanting to play and getting mud everywhere. She was always the most rambunctious of those kids; the others were probably cracking jokes at one another inside...

Chrom turned over. He couldn't bear to see that memory spoiled.

* * *

"Fuck your 'control.'" Those were the last words. The tactician rose and shoved his seat in, pushing his way out the door with a stern face. He marched down the hallway and descended the stairs rapidly, not acknowledging the curious faces of the many guards he passed on the way down. Then, Olivia appeared and looked up to him empathetically. She asked him a question with her eyebrows and he nodded in reply before taking off.

He would wait in the castle's study, arms folded and eyes shut, for at least an hour, perhaps longer. It all seemed the same in the darkness of the closed room. But that darkness was comfortable and familiar; the young tactician had spent so much of those two years relaxing in this room, thinking, planning, devising, reading, learning... It actually put a smile on his face to relive all of that in the scent of the aging books, the worn shelves, and the faint smell of his own presence, which he had trouble detecting but which, he was assured, lingered long after his departure.

Eventually, the door clicked and a ray of light shone in. Chrom step forward and seated himself across from his friend. "So... I suppose that's that, huh?" he said with laughter in his voice.

"Quite," Robin nodded.

"That was one hell of a performance, Robin," the exalt smiled, "You really do portray indignity and fury quite well, especially for a home you don't even remember."

"Not all of it was pretence," he noted, "some of those bastards up there really rub me the wrong way."

"Preaching to the choir," accepted the exalt, "but... well, you already knew how all this was going to happen, right? You're sure you want to go through with it?"

"I made that decision long ago," he nodded firmly, "Once Grima was dead... that would be the end of it, one way or another."

"This does mean we won't be meeting much in the future," added Chrom.

Robin clutched his heart mockingly, "Oh, how devastating. Now I'll only be able to spend time with my family."

"Don't forget the friend who gave you this opportunity, you arse," the exalt punched his arm.

"Never, Chrom," he grinned, "I will miss you and Olivia... and Lucina and Inigo, too, but this is a done deal. I'm finished with war and politics, I just want to live in peace with my family. If that means I have to be dead to the rest of the world, I'm fine with that."

"All right, then," nodded the exalt, standing, "it's time for you to go. I'll visit when I can get away from my security detail."

"Thank you, Chrom," stated the tactician simply, shaking his friend's hand. Nothing else was said as he was smuggled out of the building, off to begin his life as a forgotten man.


	19. A Soul Can't Be Cut

"Land ho!" the silver-haired man smiled, staring out over the horizon.

"Oh, godssakes," his brother grunted sleepily, ceasing to lean against a nearby barrel, "cut it out with that nonsense, Steve."

"You aren't the least bit enthused to discover what's become of father?" asked his older brother.

"'S not that," the assassin spat back, "Could just do without all your stupid yelling..."

Both boys stood at attention as their mother descended the stairs, however, "So, Valm Harbor is just ahead then, eh?"

"Yes, mother," her oldest son answered with a respectful bow.

"Then start getting your things together, boys," she commanded, tightening her gloves and cracking her knuckles, "I don't plan on stopping for anything until we find your father, is that understood?"

"'Course, mom," Leo nodded, "We'll be set to go when you are."

"Good boy," she patted his head and retreated to her cabin.

"Tch," the assassin scoffed vaguely in his brother's direction as he moved away from the barrel, the sound of the door to Anna's cabin closing.

The silver-haired man glanced down at his brother, "Sorry, was that an indication that you had something to say?"

Leo rolled his eyes, then stuck out his tongue, "'Wath that un indikashun tha you ha somthun to suh?' You know you annoy the hell outta me."

The orator scratched his head indifferently, "Yes, I'm well aware we have a number of... ideological differences. Would you care to tell me something I don't know?"

"Why would I bother?" the younger brother bit back, "You're so far up your own ass. Nobody listens to me anyway."

"Now we're getting somewhere," his sibling raised an eyebrow, "Go on."

"Don't patronize me!" Leo shouted, "This is exactly what I mean! I'm not as eloquent, so everybody just listens to you straight away. Forget about what Leo has to say, Steven can put it so much better, so much more inoffensively. You're a real gods-damn piece o' work, you know that?"

Steven folded his arms, "I'm afraid you've lost me. Care to elaborate?"

"Urgh," the assassin shook his head, "Even the way you talk still pisses me off. You're not your own person, for godssakes. Everything you say and do is to try to get on someone else's good graces: you play nice for mommy, you indulge the politicians, and you're a nice, eloquent speaker so that dear ol' dad will love you for all his days. You're completely fake; a stand-in for what everyone wants to hear, and everyone loves you because of it, mom and dad included. They love you more than me 'cause I have the balls to not always do whatever placates people. Must be nice, being the golden child."

An unusual crease appeared on Steven's brow as he glared back at his brother, saying nothing. After shutting his eyes and taking a deep breath, the orator looked back down at the assassin, "Are you quite finished? Have you said your piece?"

"Yeah, I said it," Leo growled, "Truth hurts, eh?"

"Good," the orator's voice broke into something more menacing as he loomed over his sibling, "Now listen and listen well: you think mother and father love me more? You think I enjoy being obedient, subservient? Ha! I was quite a bit like you when I was a child, until I learned something very important: that I was going to have a baby brother and sister. Imagine my surprise: two other children all of a sudden. Mother told me-I assume she meant it as a joke, but it stuck with me then-she told me, 'You'll have to stop goofing around and help me, Steve; being a big brother is a big responsibility.' And do you know what happened when you and Sylvia were born? 'Oh, the twins' this and 'They're so cute' that. And who was I? Their keeper. 'Steven, get your brother out of the mud!' 'Steven, don't make your sister cry, just give her your candy!' 'Steven, get your brother in the bath!' It's not by choice I've been following orders for the last nineteen years!"

Leo watched warily as his older brother, having become quite red in the face, breathed on him heavily. Mustering his courage, the assassin turned as callously as he could and threw out, "Crying about not getting your dessert when you were ten? Get over it, Steve. Maybe then you can join the rest of us in the real world where we have real problems and feelings."

The silver-haired man deflected the remark and also turned, "I'm amused by thinking what our relationship would be like if you knew half of what you think you do, Leo."

* * *

The brass bell rang over the sounds of the waves lapping at the shore of the port town. Fish splashed in and out of the water in the peachy light of dawn, the usual heat delayed by the fading cool of morning. The heat was only suppressed, of course, and not altogether eliminated, for the pressure that would eventually become a blisteringly sunny day was present in the humidity, and the present warmth of the sands.

And, gods dammit, the bell was ringing. Cyrus sat up, throwing the comforter aside, unwitting disturbing his hostess. He began pulling his smallclothes on. "Leaving so soon?" the voice of his hostess slurred dreamily.

"Such is my nature," he bowed with a coy smile, "I come and go at will, like a cloud riding a breeze."

"But doesn't the breeze have all the 'will' in that analogy?" the woman wondered.

The Storm Blade frowned, "Don't crack wise, hon. Be grateful I'm even bothering to explain."

"You didn't really explain much," she replied, "All I remember is... you were waiting for someone, right?"

"That's right," Cyrus nodded, "I have a very important meeting today. That bell tells me my guests have just arrived."

The woman listened to the hollow chime of the old brass bell for a moment, "They ring that damn thing any time a trade ship is near. What makes you so sure it's them?"

"How many trade ships have been through here in the past month?" replied the leaf-green-haired man.

His hostess touched her finger to her chin, "Huh, now that you mention it..."

"So I know it's them," Cyrus concluded, "And I don't have any more time to be wasting here. So long, baby, it was fun while it lasted."

The woman tried to collect herself, but simply sighed as the Storm Blade slipped out the door, having just managed to get his trousers on and draping his shirt over his shoulder.

Cyrus finished dressing and began his walk to the pier to await the ship's arrival. As he drew close, he was surprised at how close the vessel had already come; it seemed the bell tower's staff had gotten lazy due to the inactivity and had only seen the ship drawing near a trifle later than usual. Not good news for Cyrus's preparations, but he was flexible. The Storm Blade gazed on the splashing cerulean waters near the shore with a growing giddiness, a bright smile eventually spanning his face. Finally, he was going to get a chance to make some progress. And then, of course, there would be the look of devastation on the tactician's face when they finally met... he could already taste how delicious all of that was going to be, and the excitement built in electric jolts of tension throughout his muscles as he tried to remain still and stoic at the end of the pier, still wearing his beaming smile.

Aboard the vessel itself, the captain was grumbling irritably as he continued tying down the sails to slow the ship and readying the anchor and various lashings that would be needed to hold the ship in place when they finally made landfall. Steven and Leo had since gathered all of theirs and their mother's luggage, carrying bags of clothes, food, and, of course, gold over their shoulders as the puce color of the Valmese harbor grew broader by the minute. "So, this is as far as our intel goes, Steven?" his mother asked, staring straight ahead as they all did.

He nodded, "Indeed. I know that father is after the dastards who attacked Ylisse, and that said dastards were flying Valmese colors, but I couldn't tell you precisely where father is."

"We'll just have to investigate with the locals," Leo shrugged, "Trust me, you can find anyone by name if you look hard enough and ask the right questions."

"My plan exactly," Anna patted her son's shoulder, "And you boys are ready if things get messy?"

Leo reached over his back and withdrew his bow and an arrow reflexively, pointing it straight and nocking the arrow before taking a breath and putting the set-up away. "Always," he noted with minor indignity, proceeding to pull a knife from his belt and balance it precariously on his index finger before flicking his wrist and putting it away.

Steven watched the whole display with bemusement, then produced a tome from within his cloak and tapped his forehead, "I'd, er, prefer to stay out of open conflict, but I'll do what I can."

His mother smiled at him quickly before returning her gaze to the shore, "Good enough. Make ready, kids: we'll be disembarking in just a moment."

Cyrus, still at the end of the pier, tapped his foot rather impatiently, seeing that his guests were only just now dropping anchor. He took a moment to reflect and bemoaned the heat of the location, especially with his weighty, if important-looking, armor. He attributed it to one more reason to be annoyed at the merchant and tightened all his vestments with a firm hand and narrow eyes. At least, he appreciated the silence as the locals were smart enough to stay the hell out of the way. Eventually, he finally reached the moment he had been long awaiting as the sounds of boots descending the gangplank hit his ears. He opened his eyes and smiled once more, placing one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Beg your pardon, sir, but we need to get by," the silver-haired man offered affably as he approached. Anna stopped in her tracks and began examining the man's face.

The man clicked his teeth, "Oh, I do apologize, but that's not quite possible. You see, I have a date with the lovely lady in red, here."

"A date? Mother...?" Leo looked back.

"I think he's being dramatic, Leo," she responded dryly, staring the green-haired man in the face, "or, at least, I certainly hope so."

Cyrus brushed off the remark, "Maybe we'll skip the exchanging of jeers, eh? I do so detest small talk."

"Fine," Anna allowed, "what is it you want?"

The Storm Blade smiled, eyes widening in surprise, "Hah! No hassle at all, are you sure you're a merchant? At any rate, what I want... Well, that's simple enough..." Cyrus flicked his sword out of its hilt with his thumb and swung it around comfortably into his palm, "I want your head to be forever seized in an expression of profound surprise, mixed with a tinge of despair, perhaps."

Anna and Leo both made for their weapons while Steven took a step back. "Why, don't like my prices?" the merchant waved her sword dismissively.

"No, nothing like that," the Storm Blade shook his head, "You just have the misfortune of being connected to someone I have a distinct need to see in pain." Without a word, Leo loosed an arrow at the stranger, hoping to catch him by surprise in his balking, but the swordsman merely hopped out of the way of the attack. He clicked his teeth again, "So impertinent. Well, let's have it, then." With that said, the Storm Blade rushed toward Anna, preparing a diagonal slash. The merchant readied her sword and Leo nocked his bow as quickly as he could, only for Cyrus to turn at the last moment and swipe the weapon out of Leo's hands and into the water behind them, "No cheating."

Anna gritted her teeth and swung her blade, but the strike was blocked easily by her opponent, who used his greater weight to throw her off balance and shoved her in the ribs. The Storm Blade prepared to deliver a follow-up before a fist flew at him. He groaned as he was forced to back up and block Leo, who has charged. He let the attack glance off his armor and injure his assailant, then kicked the young man with the auburn hair squarely in his stomach, knocking him to the wood of the pier. Steven fitfully searched for his tome, sweating.

Anna had recovered and swung at Cyrus, now catching him momentarily without his guard. Or so it seemed, as the swordsman promptly blocked this strike, too. Anna backed up and swung at a few different angles, varying her speed, but she was parried with every blow while the Storm Blade seemed to roll his eyes in irritation. Eventually, the leaf-green-haired man swung his sword, as well, still blocking Anna's attack, but also staggering her violently. He again attempted his follow-up to split his foe in half, but she managed to escape by kicking his legs out from under him, also falling in the counter and slipping over the side of the pier. Steven rushed over and began pulling her out.

Cyrus kicked himself back onto his feet in a moment, scoffing, "What a joke. Here I thought you'd be some sort of a challenge." He walked to Steven, still struggling to pull up his mother, and brought his sword down, "Waste of time!"

Fortunately, the silver-haired orator had noticed the attack and rolled to his side. Unfortunately, that still meant that the blade pierced his flank, causing him to clutch at the bleeding wound and release his mother, who swallowed a fresh mouthful of seawater as she dropped. The Storm Blade pulled back for another strike, but was distracted by a kick to his side. "Really?!" he growled, smashing Leo in the face with the hilt of his blade. The assassin fell over again and instinctively touched his broken, bloodied nose. "What a shame," Cyrus shook his head, "You really aren't even worth the trouble. It's no fun taking trophies if there's no fight to be had."

"Does that mean you'll let us go?" Steven choked, crawling slowly away.

The Storm Blade chuckled, "Good one. Nah, even if it's no fun, I'm still gonna take all your heads." With that said, he kicked the orator in the stomach once more for good measure and spun his blade in his hand with a flourish before leveling it along the silver-haired man's neck. Again, however, he was interrupted by an attack on his back: this time, a dagger struck near his right shoulder blade. He looked up and sighed before turning and saw the assassin on the other end of his blade. "You really don't know when to give up, do you?" said the frustrated Cyrus, who then ripped the dagger out of his back, punched his assailant, and stabbed him in the stomach with the weapon. "Incredible," Cyrus walked to the edge of the pier, "None of you are the least bit threatening, and yet you persist to be nuisances."

"Well, a good saleswoman's nothing if not persistent," Anna proclaimed with a smirk as she slashed along her enemy's back. The wound made him shout and crumple to the ground, but he recovered quickly and stood to face the merchant, whose hair and clothes were still dripping. "Gotta keep your eye on the birdie," she winked.

Cyrus was less amused; he swung his sword quickly and heavily, smashing through any guard Anna could attempt to put up, continually backing her down the other end of the pier, pushing her toward a wall. The merchant felt a cold swear coming on; if she was pressed up against that wall, it would be over. She tried to dodge to another side, but her adversary simply attacked more ferociously in the same direction to force her to back away. Seeing few other options and feeling the pressure of her opponent's onslaught growing with each strike, Anna foreswore her compunction and, upon locking eyes with her enemy, forcing all her weight forward to sustain the moment for as long as possible, spat in his face.

Eyes wide with surprise until they were shut by disgust, the Storm Blade took a step back and wiped his face. "Really now?! Is that where we've sunken?!" he shouted with incredulity.

"Hey, the business world ain't fair," Anna quipped, trying to find her breath.

Cyrus had recovered, however, and moved forward, "You realize I'm just gonna kill you even slower now, right?"

"Worth a shot," the redhead shrugged, trying to summon her guard.

"I'll say!" a voice from a short distance away shouted. In conjunction with that voice, something else flew toward the pair: an arrow. An arrow that, when the Storm Blade whipped his head around to determine the source of the voice, stuck in his eye, prompting a scream. Anna wasted not time in scurrying away from her attacker as he reached toward his face in horror. The merchant caught up with Leo, who was clutching a bow as he bled onto the wooden pier. "Always have a backup, eh, mom?" he winced, smiling weakly.

"Nice work, hon," she patted his chest tenderly, careful to avoid the wound.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Steven limped over, holding his side, his fingers stained ruby-red.

"Right," the redhead watched carefully as the Storm Blade struggled with the arrow buried in his eye, "what's your assessment, Steve?"

"Steve?!" Leo sputtered indignantly, "Why don't you ask the professional assassin?!"

"Because the professional assassin is going to bleed out if he keeps getting all worked up," she scowled at her son, silencing him, "Now, Steve?"

"He's fast as hell," the orator noted, "and stronger than all three of us combined, I think. We just gave him a pretty big distraction; I think a hasty, strategic retreat is in order."

"Ya don't think we can take a bleeding cyclops?" argued his younger brother.

"Not in this state," Steven answered, "We're all at a pretty serious disadvantage already; blinding him in one eye might have leveled the playing field before he landed a hit, but at present, I'm inclined to think he still has the upper hand, overall."

Their parley was interrupted by uneven steps creaked on the wood of the pier. "Sorry to break up your sewing circle, ladies, but," Cyrus held the bloody arrow in his fist and clenched his fingers to snap it in half and drop it to the ground, "I'm going to cut you to ribbons and scatter your guts to the winds!"

No sooner had the Storm Blade finished his remark and pointed his blade menacingly, however, than did he hear a brief murmur, followed by a sudden spark that lifted him off his feet. Wind magic whipped up dust and dirt from the area near the pier and blew Cyrus back, smacking the back of his head into a wall. "Just piss off for a moment, won't you?" Steven uttered wearily. He turned to his remaining family, "Now, for our plan... Leo's bleeding, and someone needs to get him out of here. Coincidentally, one of us is much more accomplished at the practice of field medicine than the other..."

"So what will you do?" Anna waited.

"Buy some time," the silver-haired man smiled.

"Absolutely not!" his mother rejected, "I'll stay; there's no way I'm leaving you here to die."

"I'll be fine," he resisted, "I'm useless with a staff, anyway, and there's no telling if Leo will make it to a hospital. Shouldn't we bet on the sure thing?"

Anna frowned, "Steven..."

"Go," he turned his back to her, "It's been a long time since I confronted a foe face to face... too long. This isn't a request, mother, it's an order."

Anna gripped the ground, sighing and frowning, then picked up her youngest son, "Dammit, Steve... Just... just stay alive, okay?"

"Somehow, I always do," the orator smirked, removing his bloodied hand from his side and standing taller. As Cyrus's form began to shift before them, he nodded to his mother, "Let's not waste time, move." She complied and carried her youngest son away as quickly as her legs would carry her.

"You miserable little shit," the Storm Blade's remaining eye locked with Steven's, "I'll cut your heart clean out and make you choke on it!"

"I'll be amused to see you try," the silver-haired man replied.

Still hardly any worse for wear, Cyrus was upon his opponent immediately, aiming a slash for Steven's already-wounded side. Anticipating this approach, the orator warded him off, singing the enemy with a prohibitive burst of flame. The swordsman doubled back and tried a low attack, aiming for Steven's leg. This, too, the orator anticipated and picked up his foot to move, pushing his assailant and his sword down to the wooden floor with a gust of wind. The opponent responded by pulling his blade out from the splintered wood and trying a counterattack with an underhand grip on the blade that raked along the wood until it embedded itself in the silver-haired man's other side. He winced and Cyrus smiled, but the smile faded as the orator began to chuckle. "What's so damn funny?" he demanded, sweat and blood pouring down his confused face.

"You're not too bright, are you?" Steven answered simply, holding the blade against his side with his clenched palm.

"Big talk," scoffed Cyrus, "what the hell do you..." The Storm Blade paused a second to consider his enemy's maneuvers and felt a frown fall on his face and crease his brow, "Oh you have got to be kidding-"

The orator stomped his foot down, and the splintered, cut, burnt wood of the pier that supported the Storm Blade gave a final snap before giving out and dumping the swordsman into the churning water. Taking a step back, Steven watched the Storm Blade grunt and flail in the water, then pulled another tome out of his cloak, "Pretty ingenious, no?"

Cyrus sputtered something akin to "Bastard!"

"Well, you have yet to see the best part," with another wave of his hand, the silver-haired man tossed a ball of lightning into the water and limped off as he heard the ocean sizzle. With a final sigh of relief, the orator began to limp away, bleeding from both sides, "Now... where in the devil did mother get to?"

* * *

The sounds of metal striking continued to overtake Lucina's ears as she pivoted from left to right, swatting away her foes. She felt beads of sweat trail down her neck and experienced the hot redness of blood rushing to her cheeks as she struggled on. The princess of Ylisse had been prepared for a conflict, but not for anything so fierce as the battle against these mercenaries; she couldn't understand why such an unorganized group could be so powerful, or, at least, so damnably resilient.

Still, the Legacy Shepherds were also no pushovers; previous Shepherds and their accompanying children fought valiantly to tear apart the mercenaries' ranks, standing firm in their commitment to their princess and their homeland. Of course, Lucina didn't have much time for such poetic realizations as she guarded attack after attack from the advancing enemies. Still, she considered as she slashed a charging warrior to his knees, their numbers had been steadily growing since they had departed Ylisstol, much like the original Shepherds, and that made the Ylissean heir rather proud.

She whipped her blade around and decapitated another of her foes before realizing she heard a noise that was vaguely familiar, and yet uncommon. It was a sort of powerful vibration, accompanied by some small murmur, a bit like the beating of...

"HEEEEEEY LUCIIIIIINA!"

...dragons' wings. The princess's eyes widened as one emerald and one magenta-colored manakete obliterated the lines of soldiers behind her with forceful fireballs. In a flash of light, both descended toward the blue-haired lord, returning to their human forms. "Lucina! Good to see you again! It's been, like, forever!" Nah waved to her.

The princess nodded, "It does seem like that, doesn't it? Although time's become a bit of a blur to me recently..."

"Bet you're surprised to see us here!" grinned Nowi.

Lucina nodded, "Yes, very. How did you even know I was here?"

"Oh, c'mon," Nah chuckled, "All anyone in Ylisse is talking about now is 'Lady Lucina's March to the Sea.'"

"Has news already spread?" shrugged the young lord.

Nowi cocked an eyebrow at her, "Uh, it's been a long while since the attack, Lucina. People are pretty well aware."

"So why didn't you come sooner?" Lucina wondered, drawing upon a touch of indignity.

"Well..." the emerald-haired manakete rubbed the back of her neck, "'People' knew, but... news travels slow among manaketes, 'specially 'cause there aren't as many of us around."

"Just be glad we're here now, and here to kick some tail!" her daughter contributed.

"Say, where's you're father, Nah?" the princess suddenly realized.

Before the younger manakete had a chance to respond, as if specifically in response to the lord's question, the trio turned their heads toward a yelp as a donkey sped up to their ranks, bucking and shaking up clouds of dust. Among the dust, a small man with an absurdly large hat poked out. "I thought I told you guys to wait for me!" groaned the man, dusting himself off.

"Sorry, Ricken," his wife cooed, "Nah and I just couldn't wait to get in on the action."

The mage simply sighed as he collected himself and greeted Lucina. Not far behind him, another set of hooves trotted toward their position and, within another moment, another mage was upon them. "I do hope I haven't kept anyone waiting," Laurent pushed up his glasses, dismounting his steed.

"Not at all," Lucina smiled, pleased to see another of her friends, "Ricken, Laurent, it's great to have you both here." The princess looked to all four of her new guests and nodded succinctly, "Really, I'm glad to have you all. Does this mean I can count on your support in the battles to come?"

"Chrom's enemy is my enemy," swore Ricken with a prideful thumping of his chest.

"And I'm with him," Nowi grinned and giggled at her betrothed.

"And you've always had my support, Lucina," Nah offered happily.

"Likewise," Laurent conceded, looking down at the princess in a manner less openly contented, but still affable.

"Well, then look alive, fellow Legacy Shepherds," Lucina smiled at the group, then spun and pointed her sword at the enemy and the other Shepherds currently engaged in combat, "We'll push the dastards back to the ocean and off the shoreline from there!" The new recruits cheered and followed their captain toward the battle.

* * *

The raven settled itself down onto Tharja's pale finger, and she stared at the onyx bird for a moment before retrieving the message from its talons. "Wait there," she instructed the avian messenger, introducing it to a log, whereupon it happily hopped off the finger of the sorceress and onto the smooth wood. Tharja had made it a long way from Plegia without being detected, however the slip past the mercenaries lining Ylisse's borders had made the trip unduly complex. At least now she could rest comfortably, hoping that as she drew nearer to Ylisstol, she would likewise draw nearer to information about Robin's whereabouts. Regardless of consequence, she would always do all that was within her power to protect the tactician, despite the fact that whatever relationship had existed between them in the days of war had ended long ago.

Setting her thoughts aside with a long sigh, the sorceress opened the dry parchment and read the letter contained within:

"Dear Tharja,

How's the Ylissean weather? Cold enough for you? So, here's what the scouts and spies had to say: apparently, Chrom has been kidnapped... or should that be lord-napped? Who knows? Anywho, Lucina's taken up the mantle ever since, and she's leading a new team of Shepherds to fight back the invaders! Darned if that girl doesn't take after her dad, huh? Point is, if you're going to get any info about Robin, you might do well to start there. If that's not enough, I've got another lead for you: some angry Eastern Feroxi barged into the palace yesterday, claiming that a Plegian had transgressed their border. I got that taken care of, no worries, but what's more important is that the guy he was talking about said his name was Steven. No telling if there's really anything to that, but there has been some weird stuff happening in Regna Ferox lately, so it's not out of the question that Steven might have been messing around there, so that option's on the table.

Hope that's enough for you. Until you need me, or get back, I'll just keep managing the throne here. I'm supposed to oversee a traitor's execution tomorrow... that'll be a hoot, huh? Noire says she misses you and wishes you good luck. Love from both of us!

Oh, and I think I've got a good one in the works, tell me what you think: What do you call a dog with no legs? Whatever the hell you want; he'll never come to you.

Nya ha ha!

-Henry"

Tharja rolled her eyes; only her husband would write his laughter into his letter. Still, at least he had done his due diligence in preparing information for her. Now the dark mage had two leads she could pursue, but the difficulty would be in choosing which to look into first. Steven would likely provide a more direct location for his father, but the information leading to Steven was also much less sound and confirmable. At present, she ducked her head behind the log she was using for cover, hearing a company of the mercenaries moving by.

"We'll be shipping out to fight those Ylissean rebels tomorrow," one mercenary declared to the others.

"Good, can't wait to teach 'em a lesson," responded another. A few more of the mercenaries murmured their assent.

Tharja shrugged; the convenience couldn't be ignored. She would wait for Lucina to arrive, join with the princess, and find out what she could about Robin. She unrolled a bit of parchment from within her pocket and began to write, difficult though it was, pressing the quill up against the log.

* * *

The snow-white-haired boy sat weightily upon his throne, his face buried in his palm, held up only by the throne's armrest. Stewart looked about the room fitfully, not wanting to impose further stress on his lord, but finding within himself a profound resentment and desire to lash out. All the same, he remained silent.

That silence, however, was broken by an intrusion, a parting of the wooden doors, through which a familiar robed figure passed. "I am told," the elderly voice proclaimed, "That the west khan and his wife are dead."

Vlasis looked up, his eyes showing fury, and he clenched his fist and gritted his teeth as he leered at the old sage. He offered his hand in the old man's direction and then drew his finger along his throat.

"Milord is less than pleased. He would like to know why Khan Lon'qu and his wife were assassinated," Stewart showed the same fierceness as he glared at the sage.

"Assassinated?" shrugged the old man, "They were felled in a melee that they themselves began."

Vlasis shut his eyes and shook his head.

"Milord finds that difficult to believe," Stewart noted.

"I don't give a damn what you believe," snarled Datura, "Your duty is to take my orders, don't you know that by now?"

The east khan gritted his teeth once more, then simply sighed and bowed his head.

"Good," the sage opposite him nodded, "remember your place. Now, I have another assignment for a division of the eastern Feroxi."

Vlasis's eyes widened and he cocked an eyebrow at the sage, followed by holding his index finger and thumb closely together, then a pantomime of jabbing a dagger into his own stomach.

"Milord is confused as to why you would have us divide our already small force even further; to do so is surely suicide. Do we not need all of our troops in order to support this campaign against the west?" Stewart posed.

"No," the old sage simply shook his head, "I'll be certain that your Feroxi will not fail. In the meantime, however, I'll need five thousand troops to head south."

This time Vlasis jumped from his throne, and, after that initial shock, scratched his head and pointed to the castle's south wall."

Stewart cleared his throat, "Milord is deeply concerned about the number of troops you are requesting, and is curious what function sending them to the south would serve."

Datura tapped his foot irritably, "It's no concern of yours; I'm taking these troops to strengthen Eastern Ferox's cause, nothing more. Allow me this liberty, and all will work out perfectly for you, Khan Vlasis."

The east khan cut a glance at the sage and, with a fire in his eyes, opened his mouth, "No."

Datura's eyes narrowed as he stared at the boy, who was beginning to sweat from rather instant regret. With a wave of his hand, the sage murmured a few words and the boy cried out, a purplish smog exuding from his pores and causing him physical distress he was unable to vocalize outside of shouts and whispers.

"Enough, villain!" Stewart tightened his gauntlet and made to strike the sage, but he was flung aside with an explosion of fire magic. With one last clench of his fist, the old sage sent a sort of shock through the young khan's body that made him scream louder and writhe more fiercely than before until he stuck his palm out and nodded his head. Datura ceased the torture and smiled, "There, that's better. No need to make it so hard on yourself, Khan Vlasis. I'll expect those troops ready to ship out by tomorrow."

The khan clutched his twitching, heaving body with painful groans as the sage disappeared.

* * *

"So, let me see if I'm understanding you correctly," Nihilus strode along a shelf full of books, hands folded neatly behind his back, "Cyrus is..."

"He... he disappeared from the trail, sir. Our contact in Valm Harbor was quick to report as much," Dahila conceded, bringing her hands together protectively before her stomach.

"And you... our prisoners..." her subordinate continued.

The rose-haired swordswoman bowed with extreme regret, "I did indeed fail in my duty to restrain the captives; they were rescued by an unknown assailant, but I have my contacts scanning for them and their compatriot as we speak. I was even planning to join them..."

"Dahlia," her superior said clinically, facing away from her.

"Sir?" she waited expectantly.

"You failed me," he used the same tone, "You know what that means, don't you?"

Dahlia bent her knee, "I will accept milord's punishment of choice."

"Indeed you will," he turned to face her and threw a sword at the kneeling woman, "Take this and follow me down to the basement. It's been too long since I had a real fight."

Dahlia knew better than to question the demand and followed her commander to the small dirt ring, outlined by chalk, that had been constructed for practice in the basement of the keep their group had appropriated. Usually, the area was for Dahlia or Cyrus to appraise the skills of trainees looking for positions as officers, but now the Rose Blade simply stared ahead, waiting with a horrid trepidation as her commander polished his blade with a handkerchief. This would be only the second time she had seen him fight in an official capacity, and if it was anything like the first, Dahlia was less than eager to be on its receiving end. "Milord... If you wish to physically punish me... there is no need for this. I will submit myself to milord's whim and judgment."

"No," he sliced the air with his shimmering blade, "I wouldn't inflict harm upon anyone I didn't assume had a reasonable ability to fight back." The amethyst-haired man began to chuckle softly, "Besides, what do you suppose I'd do? Bend you over my knee and spank you? No, this is much more entertaining and significantly easier to explain to a crowd of onlookers."

"Milord's words are as salient as ever," conceded the Rose Blade.

"Now, come at me," ordered Nihilus, readying his stance. With a deep breath, the rose-haired woman charged forward with blinding speed and swung her blade. She was abruptly kicked in the back and sent tumbling to the dirt; her enemy had been on the opposite side of her at a moment's notice. Could Nihilus be even faster than her? Certain that her superior was ready to end the punishment, Dahlia picked herself up and charged again, this time adding a sidestep to confuse the angle of attack.

Incredibly, her foe mirrored her movement and blocked her surprise attack, following up his parry with a few rapid strikes that forced the swordsman to back up. "Come on, fight harder!" he growled, slashing several times in rapid succession to force action on the part of the Rose Blade. She responded, parrying one of his attacks and aiming a punch at his head. A punch that was caught in midair and resulted in the seizing of her arm, followed by a throw to the floor. With a disgusted grunt, Nihilus planted a kick into her fallen stomach. Dahlia tried to suck back in the wind that had been knocked out of her. Her superior had flung her to the ground with only a single arm: just how strong was the man she called her master?

"This was just getting interesting!" he shouted at her, kicking again, "Stand up and fight!"

She obeyed again, rising shakily and aiming a thrust directly for Nihilus's stomach from a sort of primal rage, not realizing exactly how lethal her own intent was. Not that it mattered; Nihilus kicked the underside of her blade with his boot before the strike came even close and knocked the sword from the Rose Blade's hands. With a mixture between a maniacal smirk and a disappointed frown, the amethyst-haired man dropped his own sword and leveled a punch at his subordinate's face, planting a purple mark on her cheek. "Fight!" he uppercut her in the stomach, "Harder!" The Rose Blade staggered back and gasped for air. "No waiting!" Nihilus snarled, throwing a left hook. This blow dislocated his comrade's jaw and she fell screaming to the floor. "Get up!" he demanded. Still, the Rose Blade did as she was told and rose, sweat pouring down her bruised face, arms only held tenuously. Nihilus waved his hand invitingly, "Attack!"

Dahlia swallowed her fear and did as she was ordered, lobbing a weak, aimless punch. With a final grunt of disgust, the amethyst-haired man dodged the attack and spun into a kick that knocked the Rose Blade face-first into the dirt, where she sputtered out the last of her breath and shut her eyes as he face sank down.

Nihilus glanced down at his subordinate and felt compunction wash over him as his fury subsided, though, of course, there was nothing to do for it now. He stared at his bloodied knuckles and frowned, then ascended the stairs back to his study without another word.


	20. Bloody Tears

The clouds were gathering again. They formed a sheet, as appeared to be their modus operandi for this time of the year in Lieben. The Grandmaster glared back up at their silvery light, an indistinct frown on his face as sunlight peeked through the blanket and made gold cracks therein. A harsh wind sent the strategist's favorite cloak billowing along his back, flapping loudly and shaking his arms as they hung loosely at his sides. In response, he tightened his posture, bracing himself and holding his ensemble together more tightly, shivering reflexively due to the burst of cold that accompanied the quick whip of wind. He closed his eyes and allowed a sigh to escape his lips.

"It's pretty lonely out here," a frank voice noted in his general direction.

The Grandmaster opened one eye and tilted his head back, finding his redheaded daughter sporting a few furs over her clothes and an interrogative angle to her eyebrows. "I've come to appreciate those sort of circumstances, yes," he returned to the clouds, then added, "Here I thought you didn't want to speak to me."

"Cut the crap," she ordered less patiently, "You and I both know why I'm here... because you're here." Her father took a step to turn closer to her and shot her a look. "This is... Lieben Keep isn't much further, is it? Maybe another skirmish in another town, at most, and we'll be there." The Grandmaster nodded, offering her the chance to continue. "And you think... that will be the big one, huh?"

"I still have many questions as to how this all got started, but I have a feeling Argent will be able to answer a lot of them for me," he seemed to agree.

"So, the other set of orders we found," Morgan reasoned, "You think the one who issued them was the one who ordered the attack on Ylisse?" Robin nodded briefly. "But... something about that doesn't sit right with me," Morgan admitted, holding her head with one hand. Her father cocked an eyebrow. "See," the thief recalled, "when I got caught in the attack, I was approached by a group of three, and there was this guy who seemed to be leading them, a guy with purple hair, he told me to tell you that your 'time was over' or something stupid like that, and then told one of his groupies to kill me."

"Why would he give you that message and then order you executed?" Robin cocked an eyebrow.

"Good question," she racked her brain, "but... I mean, I made it out alive, maybe he planned for that to happen or was just trying to be intimidating... heck if I know."

Robin stroked his bearded chin, "So, if I'm understanding correctly, you think our menace is someone else?"

"Yes," she confirmed, "I'm... almost certain he said his name was Nihilus."

"An alias for our known malefactor, perhaps?" her father supposed.

"Maybe," the thief's brain was straining now, "but it still bothers me that I haven't seen either of his subordinates yet... Maybe our enemies have a few more aces up their sleeves than we think."

Robin nodded silently, "Hm... that muddies the waters on an already unclear problem... Well, thank you for the information, Morgan. I'm sure it will prove a useful consideration going forward."

"Right," she folded her arms.

After waiting a moment, her father turned around again, "Was there anything else?"

She took a breath and dropped her arms, "No, I don't think so. I'm going to get dinner with Inigo and the others." Her father nodded again and the thief took off, shoving her hands in her pockets.

* * *

Lucina looked intently at her friend as she slowly leaned back, raking her fingers through her long hair, and removed the gold tiara that held her sapphire locks back. Lowering it carefully onto the ground beside her, she let her bangs fall along the sides of her face and hit her cheeks, sighing quietly.

"...and so I told him off, and punched him in his big, dumb face. They started chasing us after that, and we vowed to bring them all down," Severa concluded.

"'Vowed' is a little strong," Brady corrected, it was more like, 'Say, if these guys are gonna be such jerks, we should teach 'em a lesson!'"

"Either way, whoever these mercenaries are, they're no good," Severa understated, "And whoever's leading them is quite the charismatic individual."

"Every one of 'em is extremely skilled, extremely determined, and extremely pissed," Brady supplemented.

"Curious," Laurent adjusted his glasses, "I should greatly like to meet the individual responsible for allying such disparate entities as sellswords, and I should further like to examine his reason for doing so."

"Probably just for territory of something," Nah folded her arms, "You humans fight so many wars for such silly reasons. Manaketes live so long, it's actually easier and faster to resolve disputes by just talking them out. Your kind could learn a lot from us."

"I can empathize with our forefathers' lack of trust or interest in being lectured by fire-breathing beasts who could fell one of them in a single strike," Laurent noted sharply, "And often did."

"A lot of my people were going through phases at that time," Nah defended.

"Try to focus," Kjelle, scowling, demanded attention, "We need to get a clear picture of what these cowards are planning so that we can be prepared to fight back.

"Well," all heads turned to Lucina as she cleared her throat, "we haven't had much trouble pushing them back to the coast. I surmise that they're numerous, but unorganized, and so marching in one direction, bottlenecking them, should be enough to stomp them out."

"A logical inference," Laurent nodded, "but what about the possibility of a flanking maneuver?"

"As I said," the princess reiterated, "We've corralled the mercenaries pretty effectively; there's no way they can get around us or through us, and thusly, behind us."

"I see," Laurent adjusted his glasses again, "Forgive me for questioning your impeccable strategy, Lucina."

"It's fine, I'd rather be sure I've covered all the possible problems," the lord smiled pleasantly.

"So, alls I need to know is who's head are we smashing in next?" Brady cracked his knuckles, flashing a satisfied grin.

"The mercenaries have an outpost just east of Pescanti, that's only a few miles south of where the first attack hit. If we can dismantle their forces there, we'll be close to completely wiping their forces out," Lucina explained, confidence exuding from her proud posture.

"When you put it that way, it sounds like we're practically done already," Severa replied with mild amusement.

"Well begun is half done, as they say," Laurent suggested, "and Lucina has certainly begun very well."

"Then let's put this silly thing to rest, already!" Nah hopped up. Lucina smiled, pleased at her friend's enthusiasm.

The tent flap flew open, "Don't be so sure."

The children of the Shepherds reached for their weapons, but the woman before them halted their movement with any icy leer. Lucina hazarded to speak, "And who are you?"

"Don't recognize me?" the woman sighed disaffectedly, flipping her hair, "I guess most people don't get a good look at my face... My name is Tharja, and I served with the Shepherds."

Laurent tapped a finger on his forehead, "Ah, yes, I thought you seemed familiar. My mother is still interested in running a few experiments with your assistance, if you're amenable."

"Forget the experiments," the Plegian sorceress growled, "Those mercenaries you talked about... they're planning a counterattack. I don't know what kind or when, but it's happening."

"So, our enemies are gonna fight us at some point? Thanks for the hot tip," Brady rolled his eyes.

"Watch your tone, priest," she snarled, "I could have you croaking like a toad with a snap of my fingers."

"Lady Tharja," Lucina tried to defuse the argument, "Can you provide us any specifics?"

"Regrettably, not really," the Plegian queen shook her head, "But I'm sure this counterattack is happening soon. I mean 'a few days from now' soon."

"Then thank you for this critical information," Lucina bowed, "You must have traveled far, why don't you go catch up with a few of your comrades and rest up while I finish discussing strategy with my team?"

Tharja poked her head outside the tent, then pulled back in, "To the rest, yes, to the mingling... I'll pass. I want to make sure you're taking me seriously, though, princess."

"Of course," Lucina swore, offering her right hand, "I doubt none of what you've said, but I do need time to readjust my plans."

"Good," Tharja folded her arms, still sounding dissatisfied, "If you get killed, it won't be my fault. Next, I had a question for you."

"Please," the princess gestured with her hand.

"Have you seen Robin at all in your campaign?" Tharja's eyes became bright.

The Ylissean princess shook her head, "As I recall, he left to confront our aggressors before I had the opportunity to return home. Leo and Anna helped me to recover my father's castle, however; I believe they were following him."

"That's useful info," surmised the Plegian sorceress, "I think I'll have a bite to eat and then get on their trail, know where they went?"

"After they left the castle, I haven't a clue," Lucina shrugged, "I seem to recall them talking to Sully, maybe she'll know."

"Mm," Tharja digressed quickly, hurrying out of the tent.

The sapphire-haired princess massaged her forehead, "Now, what else do we need to account for before we move forward...?"

On a hill not far away, the sound of footsteps droned, armor clinked, and several thousand jaws were clenched shut, swallowing fear and hesitation at the thought of their deed. Still, this was the will of their leader, and they would follow him regardless of consequence; the decision was out of their hands. Five thousand soldiers clutched their weapons and marched on.

* * *

"It's getting close," the amethyst-haired man told the window, "it will be any day now..."

The door opened with a gentle brush against the rug and a few footsteps introduced the woman who entered. She bowed and saluted her superior as she drew near.

"Dahlia," he turned to face her, "Were the healers able to fix you up properly?"

"Yes, sir," she rubbed her still-tender jaw, "I will continue to serve without difficulty for the foreseeable future."

"That's good," he bowed his head simply, seeming to inspect his clothing, "I will have great need of you."

"Sir?" Dahlia put her hand to her chest.

"I intend to make for Lieben," her superior elaborated, "And I was planning on having both of my most experienced troops at my side, but one is still better than nothing."

"I'm honored, milord," the rose-haired swordswoman accepted, "but there's still the matter of the interloper that freed Exalt Chrom and his wife..."

"Let them go," Nihilus commanded sternly, "We've already gotten our objective. By the time the tactician discovers Chrom has been freed, it will be too late to change his course, too late for anyone to change the course. And, in any case, I'm far too eager to finally put my skills to the test against his."

"Then I will comply," Dahlia swore.

Nihilus nodded and sat down on his bed, "Gods, it will be good to leave this room for a bit... I hope you aren't too cross with me for my punishment."

"Milord's judgment was just," Dahlia answered quickly.

"Do you really think that?" the amethyst-haired man wondered aloud, an unnatural waver hitting his voice.

"Does milord question my loyalty?" Dahlia stepped closer.

"Not at all," he refuted, "quite the opposite, really. I broke your jaw, dear, you have every right to be pissed with me."

"Never, sir. I promised to follow you to the end of the world and back," the woman smiled slightly, "If that means I get my ass handed to me every now and again, even if it's by you, I'm willing to accept those conditions."

"You make a better soldier than I, Dahlia," Nihilus shrugged, "Can I ask why you remain so faithful?"

"We've been over this," she sighed, "You and I hold the same ideals at heart, end of story. I believe in what you've told me, and I am prepared to do everything necessary to ensure your plan comes to fruition."

"I get the sense that that's not all," Nihilus countered honestly, turning a frown at her.

"I'm sorry my explanation dissatisfies you," the Rose Blade sighed, "It is all I can offer.

"That," her superior continued, "and I know so little about you, Dahlia. You come out of nowhere and fight like the type of hero they write songs about, then bend the knee as soon as I extend the offer... you're a great mystery."

"My life has always been filled with hardship... I told you what my parents did, what I was forced to do... Your offer was my chance at a new life, and I'm thankful for it every day. That's why... That's why I..."

Nihilus waited for her to say more, but the swordswoman's mouth shut itself slowly, her eyes dropping to the floor. "Well, I may be a bit of a bastard to work with, but I know no finer soldier in my employ than you," he began to smile.

"High praise, coming from you, sir. Thank you," she accepted graciously.

"Someday, when this is all over..." the amethyst-haired man looked back up to the window, "I don't know if it will be possible, I'll still have so much management to do, but..." He wrestled with his thoughts for a moment as Dahlia, after receiving nonverbal approval, sat beside him on the bed.

"But?" the rose-haired woman watched carefully.

"But I'd like to have some of my old life back. And I think you... er, could play a part in it. A rather large part," he stuttered.

"I fear I don't understand," the woman bit her lip.

He nodded slowly to himself, "You never could, of course... I... enjoy your company, Dahlia. I hope to continue entertaining it long after our battle is won."

The Rose Blade blushed, turning her head away, then, without thinking, wrapped her arms into an embrace of her superior and pressed her lips onto his for a few blissful seconds before breaking away and standing, trying to remove or undo the impertinence, as if that were possible.

But the swordswoman was fortunate, as this maneuver had rendered her superior equally speechless. His cheeks flushed a bit, too, as he glanced up at her. Nihilus shook his head as he looked back down. "Make... Make your preparations," he stammered, "I want to be in Lieben by tomorrow night."

The Rose Blade murmured her assent and slipped hurriedly out of the room, covering her face.

* * *

Anna lay the staff at her side, kneeling before her son, the wet grass staining her pants, until the boy's eyes finally opened, slowly, but then all at once. He coughed weakly and scratched his neck, then felt his side, searching for any remainder of the wound. The area was rash-red and hot, as well as sore to the touch, but there was no flesh missing and no bleeding, and for that, the assassin was grateful. After a moment's struggle, he sat up, "Thanks, mom. Sure is a good thing you're so handy with a staff." Anna paused and looked to the side. "What's wrong?" her son took note.

"Huh?" she jumped back into reality, "Oh, nothing, I just felt a weird sense of déjà-vu."

"Well, what's the game plan from here on out?" Leo wondered, getting more comfortable.

"Good question," Anna sat back and put her finger to her chin, "I'm inclined to wait for your brother, but we can't take too much time..."

"And there's a chance he might be-"

"Leo!" his mother scolded him, holding her head back, "Just... don't."

"Right, sorry," the assassin brushed some grass from his pants, "In my business, I just get used to it. Sacrifices happen, we acknowledge them, and we move on."

"I'm not moving on from anything just yet," the merchant folded her arms irritably, "in case you've forgotten what this whole trip was for."

"Of course I haven't," Leo replied, "Just gotta be realistic, mom. The starry-eyed ones die first."

Anna glared at her son, earning her a mildly apologetic frown. The merchant sat back, extending her palms into the dirt and tossing her head back to the sky, seeing it grow slowly more gray and purple. Evening was upon them, as well as some markedly poor Valmese weather. She could only pray the road to her husband didn't extend much further. "We have to wait for Steven. He's our best bet for information on your father."

"I'm perfectly capable of conducting an investigation," the assassin thumbed at himself, "It's part of my job description."

"But we don't have time to wait for you to stalk around alleys for weeks, eavesdropping and murdering your way to a conclusion," his mother retorted.

"Crivens," Leo spat, "Can I ever not play second fiddle?"

"All I'm asking you to do is be patient," the redhead concluded.

"And what if it turns out he's dead after all?" the boy lay back on his crossed arms, "What happens when reality bursts your best-case-scenario bubble?"

"We'll figure something out," Anna snorted, in no mood.

As the pair lay back and pondered, Leo dug into his pocket and groped around for something. Finding it, he explored the surface of the object to ensure it was the right one and let out a very short sigh of relief before producing a small amber vial from his other pocket. Hesitating only a few seconds, he leaned over and offered the bottle to his mother, "Take some o' this salve. It ain't exactly a vulnerary, but it'll fix up those couple'a cuts you got."

Anna blinked, then took the bottle graciously, "Thanks, hon."

"Sure," her son murmured to the sky.

"Oh, and Leo," she piped up again.

He picked his head up, "Huh?"

Reaching into a bag, Anna pulled out a small sheet of pale yellow fabric and presented it to her son. He grasped the item and noticed an insignia embroidered into its lower-right corner that matched the emblem on his own salmon garment. He pinched the corners of the fabric with both hands and stared quizzically at his mother. "It's a scarf. To keep you warm. Mom wouldn't want you to freeze to death," she smiled.

"But, the emblem..." he wondered.

"If you're an assassin, I embrace it," she shrugged, "Work is work. As long as you keep yourself safe and you know what you're doing, your mother will always have your back. And I'll be lining up to see you play first fiddle."

The assassin's eyes widened and he buried his face, tying the yellow fabric loosely around his neck so that it gathered into a mound below his chin, accenting the soft roundness of his jaw. "Th-Thanks, mom," he muttered behind creased eyes, extending his arms for a hug. She took it and patted his auburn hair as they sat.

Presently, however, footsteps started to drag across the grass, and the pair looked back. "Is that Leo showing tenderness over there?" Steven, who smirked despite his ragged and bloodstained clothing, as well as equally bloody and dirty hands and face, stumbled over to the pair, "Has anyone checked to see if hell is freezing over?"

"Gods dammit," Leo turned away.

"Glad to see you're okay, Steve," Anna smiled, straightening up her hair.

"I told you I'd be fine," he patted his chest proudly before coughing, "and I even learned a little something."

The merchant's eyes glowed, "Do tell."

"See, I met this charming young lady by the docks," the silver-haired man began.

"Oh, shut up," his brother spat.

"Listen," Steven insisted, scowling, "She claimed to be an associate of the man who attacked us. She said he told her he would be going to Lieben after today."

"And why should we believe her?" Leo demanded.

"I'm inclined to agree with your brother," Anna nodded.

Steven's face fell, "I suppose I have no empirical evidence, but this man did seem to know you, mother. Do you suppose there's any chance he's connected to father?"

"Honey, I haven't the foggiest," the redhead exhaled, falling down onto the grass.

"Then don't take her word for it, take mine."

The group all whipped their heads around to find a figure suddenly appeared from the shadows of the slowly darkening forest. A scarlet hood covered the figure's face as it loomed menacingly over the trio.

"You," Steven took a step forward, "You're the one who saved me, right?"

"You know this guy?" Anna looked back and forth between her son and the intruder.

"I'm not sure," the silver-haired man admitted.

"I don't know who you are or what you're talking about," the figure shook its head derisively, "But I do know it's in your best interest to get to Lieben immediately."

"Why should we trust you?" Leo clutched a throwing knife in his hand.

The figure turned and adjusted its posture, angling its legs in a fighting stance toward the assassin. Leo's brow jumped up, "What? But that... You must be..."

"That's right," the figure nodded, "So understand that I'm doing you a favor. Get to Lieben posthaste. You'll be glad you did."

"...Very well," Leo bowed and folded his arms.

Anna cocked her head to the side, "You believe him all of a sudden?"

"He has the technique of one of my comrades. No one else learns that pose and lives outside of the Brotherhood," Leo responded matter-of-factly.

"If you say so," Anna watched the intruder carefully.

"Don't waste time, get moving!" was the figure's last command before it dove into the shadows again. The trio shrugged and rose to begin moving.

Anna, in particular, bit her lip and looked back at Steven, "So, was that the guy you knew or not?"

Steven stared at the ground, his eyebrows moving back and forth like they were conducting a tennis match.

"Steven?" his mother asked a little louder.

The silver-haired man's eyes popped up, "Huh! Uh, what was that?"

"Did you know him or not?" the merchant reiterated.

"Hard to say," Steven scratched his head, vexed.

"Can we trust him?" she added.

The silver-haired man stared straight ahead, "I'm going to give you the least professional advice I've ever given anyone, given that I'm having trouble making a reasoned judgment: maybe."

* * *

Lucina closed her eyes as she finally managed to lay down and breathe a moment. Even if this was only half her journey, she would be so excited to reunite with her father. She knew it was conceited and self-overestimating, but the princess couldn't help but to imagine the impressed smile on her father's face when he discovered that she had protected his entire halidom and also managed to rescue him. She would be hailed a true heroine, worthy of the bloodline that was her gift. Perhaps her father would even hand down the position of exalt. Although, she wasn't sure she was ready for that. Either way, she was thankful for the simplicity of their campaign, but one could assume that the disorder of mercenaries would make them very easy to dispatch once amply prepared. Thus the surprise attack, Lucina concluded. Well, regardless of what progress they had made, this part of the battle would be over soon.

"Legacy Shepherds, alarm!"

Lucina's eyes broke open as she bolted up. She began to throw her boots back on and stumbled out of her tent to see what was causing the commotion. As soon as she saw it, however, the princess shriveled in horror: a massive battalion of well-armored troops were bearing down on their tents, holding up torches and weapons that glinted in the inky dark. Nowi flew overhead and growled at them; she must have been the one who yelled, Lucina thought. Hurrying to address the situation, Lucina ducked back into her tent to retrieve her rapier and ran over to the remaining tents where the other Legacy Shepherds could been seen as outlines, slowly stirring. "Get up, everyone!" she shouted, "Enemies!"

An unknown entity in the gathered foes' ranks shouted, "Attack!"

Lucina's eyes narrowed in fear as a thunder of footsteps stirred up a cloud of sod that introduced the attackers. She raised her rapier and strode out in front of the tents, seeing a few of her comrades slowly emerge. The sapphire-haired lord held her ground as the aggressors drew near, then noticed a very peculiar detail she had previously ignored: the enemy bore Feroxi colors. Lucina was so stunned, she barely felt the impact when the first gauntlet struck her face, knocking her down and into darkness.

The enemy marched unimpeded into the camp as the Legacy Shepherds began to rise. Nowi shot breaths of flame, but had to tailor her attacks narrowly to avoid collateral damage, lessening the effectiveness of her strikes. Eventually, however, all of the Legacy Shepherds did leave their tents in time to meet their foe face-to-face, at which time the real danger began. Knights from the Feroxi army stepped aside to allow assassins and swordsmen to spring forth, catching a number of the Legacy Shepherds off guard, then following up with the lances of the knights themselves. The fighting quickly became brutal and unrefined, the Legacy Shepherds effectively fighting only with pure desperation.

And then it happened. Gregor made an ill-aimed swing of his blade that was deflected by a pair of swordsmen, opening him up to be impaled on the lance of an advancing knight. Naturally, Cordelia shrieked and darted down to him, shredding the nearby troops with sweeps of her own lance. The swell sellsword dropped to the ground, still bleeding. His wife tried to settle down and reach him, but only heard him sputter before going pale: "Is... bad."

The fighting continued in other sections of the camp. Ricken shouted angrily to assert his battlefield presence as he lobbed bolts of lightning and fire at the attackers, sending scores flying into the sky. Nowi watched over him carefully, raining fire down in circles around her husband as the waves of fighters continued pushing forward. Ricken was determined to make his impact, however, and continued to focus his fire and support his allies. He focused so hard, in fact, that he and his wife both missed the arrow that slipped through his arm and planted its head in his heart. The shocked mage coughed aloud only once before dropping: "That's... not good." Nowi scorched the area around her fallen betrothed.

Stahl and Sully worked in tandem, knocking enemies from one's sword to the other's lance and vice-versa, easily trouncing the less-experienced and unmounted units among the enemy. Stahl, ever vigilant, noticed the enemy cavalry preparing to make a charge at some of the Legacy Shepherds' own unmounted units and nodded to his companion to accept the charge before taking off. Fortunately for Severa and Brady, who were otherwise completely unaware, Stahl managed to curtail the advancing forces, overpowering the weakly armored cavalry with heavy and prohibitive swipes of his sword, he felled scores of the attacking horsemen as the two children hurried off.

Kellam had joined Sully and Stahl in the assumption of a vanguard position, using his heavy armor to protect the softer units behind him. It was a battle position he was used to undertaking, and he was grateful to have his wife, Miriel, supporting him with frequent surges of magic from behind. The Feroxi struck down and smashed against Kellam, but the general held on as with all the the strength of a reinforced steel gate, feeling proud as he knocked the opponents to their knees and dispatched them. He sweat as the onslaught seemed to have no end, however, and in taking a moment to catch his breath, missed a particularly fleet-footed myrmidon who dashed past him and ran Miriel through with his blade. Kellam gasped and tried to smash the myrmidon with his axe, but he was flanked by the remaining Feroxi and bowled over. "Inconceivable..." Miriel muttered into the dirt. Maribelle tried to take over the fallen mage's position as Gaius leapt from place to place across the camp, subduing stronger enemies one at a time. Sumia cast javelins down from the air as Frederick attempted to assume Kellam's guard.

It was at this time that enough of the Feroxi had infiltrated the camp that they began to burn the tents, increasing the panic and the fervor of battle. It was at that same time that Lucina finally managed to rouse herself and felt a chill run down her spine as she saw the fires rising to the sky and casting gold light onto the growing puddles and sprays of blood that coated the campground. Seeing the corpses of her comrades, she began to run into the battle and fight back against the incoming Feroxi, whose numbers seemed limitless in this conflict. "No," the Ylissean prinxess heard herself murmur as she caught glimpses of the struggling Legacy Shepherds between her attacks, "No, no, this can't be...!"

Maribelle took an arrow to the shoulder. Sumia's pegasus was hit by a burst of wind magic that sent her tumbling. Frederick's brow darkened as the Feroxi bore continuously down upon him. Gaius was kicked to the dirt by a Feroxi knight. Kellam struggled to pull himself up amidst being trampled. Nowi and Cordelia had tears streaming down their faces as they clawed viciously at the enemy, one literally and one metaphorically. Brady's shoulder was dislocated as he tried to block the swing of an axe. Severa received a cut along her leg. Nah was struck dead-center by a torpedo of flame. Laurent had his arm gashed by an axe. And Lucina was forced to hang her head and cry out in fear: "Retreat!"

The Legacy Shepherds made no arguments against that order, and the army of heroes, now three fewer in number, pushed back against the enemy just long enough to turn tail and flee from the flaming wreckage of their campsite. As they tread paths of ash-blackened boots and horizon-bending heat behind them, Lucina facilitated, directing the path, and so forcibly made herself the last one to leave, getting a full look at the celebratory cheers and whoops the Feroxi made as their enemy scurried away.

The bell rang in Lucina's mind: defeat.

* * *

The amethyst-haired boy sat in the stiff, old oaken chair and sipped rather crassly from the bowl, not because he had any particular disdain for his current company, but because he was sure he could be comfortable with her.

Cypress moved a lock of hair out of her face as she watched her friend lap up the remainder of his soup. Her face was dirty and more somber than dour, slightly uncharacteristic of her. The boy stared for a second and she shot him a tiny smile of amusement, which encouraged him to finish his food. "Somethin' up?" he said over his last mouthful.

"No, I'm just tired," the dark-haired girl deflected, "Busy, you know?"

She was busy, all right. Busier than she had ever been when they roamed the streets as a pair. Now he would go off to practice with or conduct business for the Doctor, and she would wait here, always having something to cook, clean, or fix. It was like being back at the orphanage, but only for her, a thought that had more than once created a festering feeling of discomfort in the pit of the boy's stomach. "Sorry," was all he could manage, "that sucks."

"It does," she still had the wherewithal to laugh at him, "but I manage."

"I wish I could help," the boy sighed, "but, you know..."

"I know," she nodded, "I'm sure your work is very important. It's fine. I can handle myself."

"I know you can," he assented, "I just wish I could help you, too."

"Forget it, Shorts," she commanded. The amethyst-haired boy smiled at the nickname and shut his mouth. He gazed about the room a few minutes more, paying attention, perhaps for the first time, to the sparse accommodations, the dining room seemingly stripped of all life and decoration for reverence to the bare essentials: one table, three chairs, a doorway, a window. All the furniture was simple finished wood, and the window offered no particularly interesting views (it simply showed a long plain that was well worn by grazing cattle, but even that was invisible as night had set in). In spite of himself, the boy's gaze turned to Cypress again, and he was surprised to find a blue-purple blemish on her fair skin that he'd failed to notice before.

"Hey," the boy squeaked against his better judgment, "Did something hit your face?"

She paused and touched around her cheeks, wincing when she applied pressure to the bruise, "No, I don't think so."

"But, there's a bruise on your face, right where your fingers are touching," the amethyst-haired boy contested.

She cursed under her breath, "Uh... Oh, right, I, uh, bumped up against the door when I was turning around to clean it."

The boy looked intensely, dissatisfied with this answer. "Cypress, tell me what happened."

"Let it drop, it's fine," she couldn't withhold her tears, though she bit them back.

"No, it's not," he reaffirmed, "What happened?"

Rubbing her arm and turning away, the girl sobbed, "I... I got hit. I was... working on the side, and my customer hit me."

"So contact the guard," the boy growled, "They'd love to kick some punk's ass for a cute girl."

She blushed and looked down at the table, "You don't get it, Shorts. The job I was working... I couldn't really talk to the guards."

That gave the boy pause and his eyes widened, "Wait... Do you...? Am I hearing what I think I am?"

"I... I have to make sure we have enough money to bring in food since he doesn't give it to us anymore," tears remained welled in the girl's eyes.

The boy stood and pushed his chair back, "But you don't...! No! No, you should never have to do that! No! Absolutely not! Who was this bastard?!"

"Don't get involved, kid," she pleaded, choking.

"I'm fucking getting involved," he retaliated, "What was his name?!"

The girl sobbed incoherently, apparently overcome by dread.

The boy grabbed her by the collar, "What's the bastard's name?!"

"Tal'bey," Cypress eventually blubbered, "He was called Tal'bey. Please don't do anything stupid, Shorts."

The amethyst-haired boy gritted his teeth, "My name is Nihilus! And I'm about to do something stupid, all right!"

Veins surged in the boy's head as he walked through the darkened streets, a trickle of rain beginning to wet the ground as he strode forward. His approach for this sort of a problem was simple, especially because it was already evening. Men like this Tal'bey had a reputation, they always did. Nobody ever hired a prostitute and hit her just once. As such, the amethyst-haired boy drifted around the streets until he found a corner where two young ladies stood, one looking slightly more enthusiastic than the other. "How ya doin', hun?" the more enthused one slurred.

"Fine," Nihilus grunted, "Looking for a guy named Tal'bey."

"Sorry, my boss only has girls," she replied.

"He's not a worker, he's a customer," the amethyst-haired boy elaborated.

"Then I don't know 'im," the woman finished, folding her arms.

"I heard o' him," her partner muttered.

"Anything you can do to help me find him?" Nihilus demanded.

She sneered at him, "Depends on who the fuck is askin'." The boy threw a bag of coins at the less enthusiastic girl. She opened it and smiled a little, "He likes to take girls to the Ozappa Inn, four streets down." Nihilus nodded at the girl and took off. "What," she shouted after him, "no tip? Asshole."

It felt like hours, walking up into the eroding, brown-walled inn and, eventually, stepping inside the filthy, roach-canvassed den of iniquity, but Nihilus worked up the stomach for it over time, his mind consumed with a fantasy, a fantasy of a moment that he knew was fast approaching when the door clicked open.

"Lay down," a petite girl flew onto the bed past the door (against which Nihilus was pressed) accompanied by the gruff voice of the man who could only be Tal'bey. As the door shut, Nihilus kicked the unsuspecting customer to the floor. The amethyst-haired youth looked up to the girl on the bed immediately and severely.

"Leave," he commanded, tossing her a bag of gold. She quickly gathered herself and complied.

"What the fuck?" the customer shouted, trying to pick himself up.

"You Tal'bey?" Nihilus demanded.

"Who the hell are you?" he groaned.

"Are you Tal'bey?!" Nihilus slammed the man's head into the floor.

"Yeah! Yes! I'm Tal'bey!" he moaned, "The hell do you want?!"

"I want you to suffer," Nihilus cracked his knuckles.

The screams of Tal'bey were heard in every room of the inn that evening, though none were brave enough to seek out their source. The room itself was a sight to behold, having already been a sty to begin with, it reeked so heavily of human blood and organs the following morning, the entire building was condemned shortly thereafter. What remained of Tal'bey was either stained on the walls or small enough to fit into a shoebox.

* * *

"Er, beg your pardon, master," he felt his arm being tugged. Nihilus's eyes fluttered and he sat up. Dahlia was looking over at him, "Forgive me for waking you, sir, but we're only about an hour from Lieben Keep."


	21. General Offensive

Wounded Shepherds lay everywhere. Severa held Brady up on her shoulders as she walked him over to the medical tent. Except that there was no tent, only an ever-growing number of cots piled together with bleeding or bandaged soldiers upon them. Sumia was pressing a cool rag to her husband's face, though the knight's eyes remained closed. He was one of the fortunate ones, the few healers left among the Legacy Shepherds' small army remarked; he only suffered from exhaustion. Many of those who remained had more than a few lacerations or contusions, and all felt their morale dip into a pit at the end of their successful retreat. And then, of course, there were the cries of those who had lost loved ones. These were anguished and loud, at first, full of horror, but their perpetuation throughout the day drained their owner's voices, and so now the sobs were silent, or, otherwise, raspy. Regardless, however, they were the sounds that made it the hardest for Lucina to lift her head.

In one day, she had lost three of her father's most trusted comrades-in-arms and had an entire allied nation turn against her, or so it seemed. That was the oddest thing about the battle. The princess tried to think about the Feroxi many times during the aftermath of the attack, but her mind always drifted as she heard the droning cries of other Shepherds spill out of their tents. The sound made it hard to think. Nowi's was the worst; she didn't have the voice of a grown woman.

All the same, Lucina tried to retain her focus: why would the Feroxi attack? Who was behind this sudden change of alliance? Naturally, she knew about the difficulty that had arisen in Regna Ferox since the deaths of Khans Basilio and Flavia, but she had understood that Lon'qu had done a serviceable job succeeding Basilio. She still knew little of Khan Vlasis's east Ferox, however. It was then that the princess called to mind her brother, who she hadn't seen in weeks at this point, and remembered his diplomatic mission to speak with Khan Vlasis about relations between their countries. Perhaps the talks had been a trap, and perhaps Inigo was now dead.

That tore it: Lucina could not pick her head up.

Until she heard a shuffling in the room. "Uh, beg pardon, Your Highness," a voice excused itself.

Lucina covered her eyes a moment in an effort to disguise her defeat with some royal dignity. Her cheeks remained red and her eyes wet as she turned around, "What...?"

Kellam had his eyes to the ground, but lifted them as his captain looked in his direction, "Sorry, Lady Lucina... I came to check on you."

"You... came to check on me?" she repeated absently.

"Yes," he assented, "I was worried you'd be in quite a state after a battle like that. I thought you might find use for some company."

The blue-haired lord wiped her face quickly, then countered, "Kellam... you lost your wife out there. If anyone needs to be comforted, it's you."

"I can... mourn Miriel for the rest of my life," the knight grunted with difficulty, "Right now, you need help."

"No, I don't," the princess rejected, "We lost husbands and wife, a mother and fathers today, and it's my fault. I have to own up to this, to acknowledge my responsibility, and grow from my failure. I don't need sympathy; I need to do better."

"Not every battle is a perfect victory," Kellam supplied, "Casualties are inevitable in a war."

"You're right, of course," Lucina shook her head, "I just... I somehow had it in my head that I was better than that. That I could save everyone."

"You were smart enough to have everyone retreat, to live to fight another day. I think Chrom would be proud," the dark-haired knight offered.

"Thank you, Kellam," the princess sighed after a moment of thought, "Now, I have to think about our next step, so, if you would..."

"Right," he began to back away.

"Please check on Frederick for me," she added, "and let me know if anyone needs anything."

"Yes, milady," he saluted.

So long as she'd known him, Chrom had never lost a battle; pride was the last thing she would imagine him feeling at such a moment. The princess glanced back down at her map, outstretched in both her hands, and searched for a route through which to proceed. The unexpected challenge of their Feroxi pursuers made an exit far more difficult, especially since Lucina had no idea the depth of their numbers. Examining a few paths of egress, the sapphire-haired girl's finger froze on the page as she came to a sudden, troubling realization: she had pursued the sellswords attacking her home almost to the coastline, but now the Feroxi were directly behind them. Their northern neighbors had stolen their strategy, and were free to run rampant at the Ylissean capital.

That depressed Lucina even further, remembering the difficulty of reclaiming her father's castle. Then, too, she remembered the mysterious hooded figure that strategized for her and saved their attack. This figure, she pondered, had been aiding her quite a bit in her journey, and so she wondered why he had failed to appear in this moment, her most disastrous defeat thus far.

It was at that moment that slow footsteps grabbed her attention.

Looking ragged and exhausted, five figures slowly descended upon the camp. Lucina recognized the member at their forefront as her aunt. "Aunt Lissa!" she called out in a voice that surprised even her in its elation. She took off from her seat to embrace one of her few remaining relatives as the group drew closer.

"How are you, Lucina, dear?" Lissa returned affectionately, stroking the girl's hair. The fatigue was present even in her voice.

"What in tarnation happened out here?" Donnel scratched his head, "I thought you were gonna find yer pa and get things fixed down here."

Lucina's eyes fell and her hair cast a shadow on her face. Lissa glared back at her husband severely.

He frowned, "Aw, heck, I didn't mean nothing by it, Lucina. I don't wanna kick you while you're down, but, see... We ran into a spot o' trouble ourselves."

"What happened?" Lucina released her aunt. After having a second to ponder the situation, she had a thought, "No, don't tell me..."

"The Feroxi turned... really fast," Owain relayed without any of his signature grandeur and with a stern scowl on his face, "They got Lon'qu and Panne... both of them saved the five of us."

"Gods..." Lucina whispered to herself, "Yarne, are you okay?"

The taguel stared at the floor, his face somewhere between furious and exhausted. "He... hasn't said a lot since we left Regna Ferox," Cynthia reported with a frown.

Lucina held the side of her head, "How can so much be going wrong all at once? Naga... Am I to be the last of my family to see Ylisse alive?"

"Now, ain't no use talkin' like that," Donnel quieted her. Heads turned to face the farmer-turned-prince as he scratched his head, "I don't claim to know much 'bout you or yer pa, or anything about ruling a big ol' country, but I do know that if ya just give up the ghost in the dead o' winter, the farm won't live to see the spring."

The sapphire-haired princess took a breath and nodded to her uncle, "Thanks, Uncle Donny. That makes sense... I think. I won't ever stop trying to get my father back in control of our home."

"And we'll do all we can to support you," Lissa offered, smiling.

"What fine renaissance is this?" Owain proclaimed, "Truly, ours is a family, nay, a nation of the most indomitable spirit! I, Owain Dark, feeling the holy Ylissean blood course through the veins of my sword hand, do verily pledge my blade to this most significant of conflicts, that the bards may sing of my fervor and of Ylisse's truly awesome power!"

Cynthia blinked his way a few times, then turned to Lucina, "I'd like to help, too, if I can."

Lucina looked past them all to find the young taguel still focused on the ground beneath him, "Yarne... how do you feel?"

"I'll... come with you, but... I... I can't fight, Lucina," he rasped, "It's not within me anymore. I've seen too much death to put myself in the line of fire again."

"I understand," Lucina nodded, "Thank you for remaining with me, everyone. Now, we may need some extra help tending to the wounded. I think your help would be especially valuable, Aunt Lissa."

"Right," the blonde princess nodded, being led away by her niece.

* * *

Chrom placed his hand against the wooden plank and heard the water ripple. He sighed as he gazed out across the ocean, longing thoughts of his home and his family buffeting his concentration, a phenomenon that had increased in its frequency as the dark of night began to wear on the exalt and his wife. Speaking of, he thought to himself, Olivia ascended the gangplank onto the vessel and glanced around at the sails. He followed carefully after her, unnerved by the dark.

The ship's captain emerged from his quarters below deck and saluted them both tersely. Chrom stepped forward and professed, "I really can't thank you enough for what you're doing."

"You can thank me by paying me when we get there," replied the captain.

"Er, right," Chrom scratched the back of his neck.

"How long did you say the passage would take?" Olivia wondered.

"About three days, if the wind's kind to us," the captain answered, disinterested.

"Be strong, Lucina and Inigo," the rose-haired queen of Ylisse whispered to herself.

"We'll try not to get in your way," Chrom provided, reading the captain's face.

"That'd be preferable," he grunted before leaving to secure a rope for the mast.

"Not the most personable fellow, is he?" the exalt chuckled to his wife.

She breathed into a smile, "No, but I'm sure such high-profile clientele have him feeling serious stress." Chrom laughed.

"How long has it been since I last told you that you look radiant in the moonlight?" the exalt murmured suddenly, cupping Olivia's cheek.

The queen blushed and hid her face, "Chrom, what's gotten into you?"

She was separated from him immediately by the vast distance in his stare, "Just... reevaluating priorities."

Sensing the need, Olivia pressed herself into her husband's chest, "We'll make it, Chrom. We can, we have to, for our children."

He mumbled affirmatively into her hair, "You really do make anything feel possible, Olivia." She smiled pleasantly back and sustained the embrace.

Their momentary happiness was broken up, however, by a voice shouting, "No, no, no!"

The sound caught Chrom's attention first as his head turned on a swivel to face the sound. Out of the murky darkness came the gleam of a weapon, the end of a sword. Fortunately, the exalt had a moment to duck his head to the side and avoid the thrust. The sapphire-haired lord gritted his teeth with a grunt of anger as he stepped back and withdrew his sword, looking for the assailant while Olivia shrieked and jumped back.

"Damn you! Are you made of smoke? Just die already!" the exalt found his mark, a young woman dressed in all black, save for a blood-red belt and a curious emblem on the shoulder strap that supported said belt. He didn't have much time to evaluate her appearance, however, as she thrust her blade toward his face again. This time, however, the woman's thrust was easily knocked aside by Falchion. With more than a hint of vitriol, Chrom followed up his guard by planting his boot squarely in the girl's stomach, hearing the wind be knocked out of her. The young woman collapsed, panting, to the deck of the ship.

"Who sent you?" Chrom demanded, leveling Falchion threateningly toward the assassin's neck.

She scoffed, trying to push herself up, "You could rip me in half down the center and I wouldn't tell you."

"Then begone," Chrom replied simply, impaling her stomach and watching the blood seep out.

"Chrom, watch out, there's a...!" the exalt turned to find a familiar face, or rather a familiar lack of face: a crimson-hooded figure stared back, arm outstretched.

"You again?" Chrom replied, "Did you send her?"

"No," the figure answered, "As a matter of fact, I was trying to warn you about that."

"Something about this situation feels unpleasantly familiar," Chrom proclaimed quietly.

"I'm surprised you managed to bring her down so easily," the figure observed wit amusement in its voice, "She was ducking me for days..."

"Well, I suppose I ought to be grateful for your trying to save my life," he sighed.

"Woulda been better if I'd succeeded, huh?" chuckled the figure, "I guess it's good you're as strong and sharp as they say."

"You did already save us both once, so I guess that counts for something," the exalt added, looking back to ensure that his wife was unharmed.

"Huh? Er, right," the figure stammered, "I... uh, shouldn't impede you any longer, Exalt Chrom. Get home quickly, your daughter will need you."

"Have you seen her?" Chrom's eyes glowed.

"No," the figure dismissed, "Just an assumption, one I'm sure you've also made."

The exalt nodded, "Indeed. Will you not come with us? I could use a companion of your skill and vigor."

The figure laughed quite sharply in the exalt's face, "That's quite a choice of words... Really, Chrom, you flatter me, but I can't hang around, I've more business to attend to."

The slightly unsettled exalt cocked an eyebrow and shrugged, "Well then, thank you for your efforts, at least."

"Not at all," the figure nodded, stepping off the boat and back into the dark.

The ship's captain sidled up, grimacing at the corpse bleeding out onto the deck. He glanced up at the exalt: "You're paying for that, too."

* * *

The quartet gathered to observe the map laid out on the table, gazing at the lay of the land intently, nervous to speak. "Well," Virion uttered, a shudder of hesitation in his voice, "Monsieur le Tactician, this would be your time to shine."

The grandmaster moved a lock of hair out of his face and nodded, "Then let's not beat around the bush, we need a clear plan of attack. Our numbers are few, but not insignificant; we won't beat General Argent in a head-on assault, so that's out of the question. We need a more creative solution, any ideas?"

"I thought coming up with creative solutions was your job," Inigo folded his arms.

"Awfully hard to do when I know so little about the upcoming area," the grandmaster rebuked, "I need more information, give me some thoughts. Come on kids, there are no wrong answers."

"What about this mountain ridge, here?" Morgan tapped on the parchment, "We could descend from here and scale the wall under cover of night, catch 'em off-guard, and end this battle before it begins."

"But it's impossible for most of our troops to scale to that point, especially those on horseback," Robin cut her off, "No dice."

"Perhaps something more... beguiling, then?" Inigo supposed, "The castle has rear and front gates, we could divert attention to the front and then flank in the rear."

The grandmaster shook his head, "It's a bit too obvious, and we don't know how well guarded each entrance is. Aside from that, Argent knows how few we are, he'll suspect treachery if we appear to engage him head-on."

"The forests nearby offer much cover," Virion shrugged, "We might sneak close that way and pick the enemy off a few at a time."

"Better," Robin nodded, "but we could still get stuck in dense woods like that, and speed would really behoove us in a battle like this."

"So what's your plan?" Morgan tapped her foot impatiently.

"A fight with no good options..." the tactician murmured to himself, "Well, we do know that the Liebenese forswear magic, so our first priority should be to make this a long-range conflict."

"But how can we achieve victory like that?" Virion piped up, "We cannot hope to lay siege and wait out the Liebenese, can we?"

"No, but we don't need to," Robin continued, "Our objective is to lure out General Argent and put him down. When the Liebenese soldiers see their revered commander fallen, they'll give up the ghost."

"You're sure about that?" Inigo stroked his chin.

"Completely," the tactician nodded.

"So, how do we lure out the general?" his daughter prodded.

The grandmaster smiled, "We'll give him exactly what he wants."

* * *

"Status of ballistae?" the commander demanded.

"Operational, loaded, and manned, sir," came the reply.

"The front and rear guards are readied to my expectations?" their tactician pressed further.

"Of course, sir," his subordinate replied.

"Good," he released a breath of relief, "General Argent, you're prepared?"

"As always, Lord Nihilus," the mountainous man nodded, bowing slightly.

"Then let's discuss overarching strategy," the amethyst-haired man unrolled a map on a nearby table, "Dahlia, you too. Now, the duke's tactician is well aware that Liebenese troops don't use magic, so he'll want to drain and slow down your men by miring them in a sea of ranged attacks. He forgets or is ignorant of our advantage, however; utilize the ballistae and platoons or archers to repel this stratagem and we will have cornered our foe."

"And what's our endgame, sir?" Dahlia requested.

Nihilus shook his head, "It won't be over that quickly. Grandmaster Robin is a persistent man, and a little damper to his first plan of attack won't frighten him, he'll try something new. Ultimately, his goal will be to kill General Argent, as such a symbolic victory will assure him a more tangible one among the impressionable Liebenese."

"The tactician will not kill me," the massive Silver Soldier announced definitively, "I have judged his strength, and it is not alarming."

"I've made judgments of my own, you know," Nihilus glared at the general, "Whether he could kill you or not, that's his goal, and I will prevent it. I'll trust you to lead the rear guard so that he can't pull any fast ones, Dahlia."

"Understood," the rose-haired swordswoman bowed.

"As for us, Argent, the objective is simple: lead our forces to bear down on Rosanne's as quickly as possible, culling the advantage of range, and therefore securing our victory," Nihilus recited.

"And what shall we do with the enemy officers?" Argent began to rise.

"I don't care about the duke, his wife, or his son; do with them as you will, but try to keep your men from killing Grandmaster Robin or his daughters, I have a great many things to ask of them," the tactician began rolling up his map.

"Thy will be done, Lord Nihilus," Argent excused himself, bowing. The amethyst-haired man sighed as the last guest vacated his chambers and picked up a sword and tome.

* * *

The grandmaster hand his hands balled into fists, swinging purposefully alongside his prized cloak as he continued forward, the clinking of thousands of feet behind him. "I can't believe I'm letting you do this," a small voice complained.

"You don't need to worry, Sylvia, I can handle myself. I know exactly what I'm doing," he declared with confidence.

The girl mumbled with uncertainty and tightened her grip on her staff, moving toward the back of the line as instructed. Once she was safely removed from the front lines, Robin withdrew a fire tome and waited, listening carefully. In a few minutes, the clinking had stopped, and five rows of archers, encompassed by a few columns of mages readied their weaponry. Robin examined their faces, seeing many uncertain, but more nonplussed and straight-faced, as if resigned to their fate. That was the attitude he needed.

Counting down from ten, the grandmaster threw up his hand as his lips whispered zero and a ball of flame whistled into the sky, exploding in a small burst. Seeing the signal, the ranged troops surged forward, shouting in waves that seemed tangible and electric through their sheer energy. Shaking his head in self-deprecation, the grandmaster smiled as he jogged to keep up with the spring-loaded vanguard. Before long, they were in range of the castle walls and arrows flew into the necks and faces of a few unsuspecting guardsmen.

Concentrating, as he needed to do more and more recently when conducting magic, Robin cast his hand forward and detonated the castle gates with a plume of fire. As the smoke settled, he peered inside. The area was dark, however, and the aging strategist could see little. Where were the soldiers with which Argent intended to fight this battle?

His question was answered by an unfamiliar voice booming above him like thunder, "All units, open fire!"

The creaks of wood and metal could be heard from the same direction and, all at once, Robin realized what was happening and charged for cover. He would only have one chance. Seconds later, a hail of fragmented rock, burning pitch, and harpoon like projectiles fell onto the Rosannien vanguard, crushing, burning, and skewering many. Robin swallowed as he lifted his head from the dirt: his attack had been anticipated and decimated. Some of the Rosannien archers clung to life, kneeling and firing up at their assailants, but now armored knights, cavaliers, and small squads of myrmidons poured out of the castle gates.

The killing of these troops depressed Robin greatly, but he had a more pressing thought on his mind: How had Argent prepared so well? The general had seemed decently intelligent, strong, and honorable, no doubt, but he didn't strike the tactician as a strategic genius, and the Valmese's defense thus far had been nothing short of clairvoyant. The grandmaster searched the castle roof, currently overrun by reloading catapults and ballistae. Wherever his answer lay, it was within that castle at this moment. Not to be put down, Robin threw his hand to the sky and, relying on a gift from Laurent, cast a small, shimmering ball of purple-black light into the sky.

More than a hundred yards back, Virion, Cherche, Gerome, Morgan, Inigo, and Sylvia all felt their hearts sink as they watched the phenomenon. They had seen the devastation of their front line, but the tactician's signal meant that contingencies would have to be put into place. Morgan stepped forward, "Inigo, you're good with leading these troops up to death's door?"

"Danger is what I live for, my darling," the Ylissean prince put his hands on his hips, smiling haughtily.

The redheaded thief smiled bemusedly at him and shook her head before embracing him, "Just be careful."

"I'd never fail to return to you," he assured. After they parted, the prince held his sword aloft, earning a series of cries from the Rosannien soldiers who followed after him as he charged ahead.

"...And Gerome," she turned to the marquess of Rosanne.

He was already pulling the reins on his wyvern, "I'll take care of it."

"Right behind you, dear," the duchess took off after her son.

Morgan watched the twin wyverns dart toward the castle tower, en route to its defenses. It would be a dangerous goal for the fliers, but one worth pursuing. "Virion, you know you're headed around back with the stealth group, right?" Morgan breathed to the duke.

"Naturelement," he nodded, "We will succeed in your father's name, Dame Morgan."

"Don't call me that," she replied, "And how 'bout winning in your own name, since it's your war to begin with."

"That too!" the sky-blue-haired archer took off, shouting, "Enemies of Rosanne, die with magnificence!"

Morgan applied her palm gently to her forehead before looking up, "And now, Sylvia..."

"I've got daddy," the thief's sister nodded, "Get those numbskulls moving the right direction. We'll bring Argent down no matter what!"

"Right," the redhead smiled, shaking her sister's hand, "Break!"

* * *

"Did you hear that?" the assassin clambered out of the trees.

"Of course we heard it, that's why we're out here," his brother scoffed.

"Bite me, you gray-maned dandy," his sibling bit back.

"Boys!" their mother shouted, "Can we do this later?"

Steven rolled his eyes, then cast them forward, "Mercy me... It looks like the whole plain is on fire! And there's a castle out here..."

"A castle means we're somewhere pretty important," Anna surmised simply, "I say we check it out, get our bearings. Maybe we can get some help finding your dad."

"That flag..." Leo observed a tapestry hanging loosely over a ledge on the castle, flapping in waves from the wind, "It's... Liebenese. That's where we are, Lieben."

"You're certain of that?" Steven glanced back at his brother.

"For once, just gimme the benefit of the doubt," the assassin threw up his hands. His older brother shrugged and made a conciliatory gesture with his hands.

"Someone's standing before the door," Anna pointed out, "Maybe we should try to speak with her."

"I concur," Steven assented, "but I suggest caution. The Liebenese seem to be in the middle of something. Possibly something big."

"Can't hurt to try," Leo hopped forward and took the lead. Nettled, his brother quickly fast-walked ahead of him. Anna shook her head and followed her sons. As the trio came into view, the rose-haired woman before them drew her sword, but did not engage as she glared at them, analyzing their intent.

"Beg pardon, milady," Steven waved his hand as they drew close, "We mean neither you nor your master harm, we are only lost and searching for someone. May we speak with the owner of this castle."

The woman grunted and put on a distressed frown, "If your words ring true, you've very unfortunate timing, travelers. You find yourselves at Lieben Keep in the midst of a battle against Rosanne."

Leo smirked with satisfaction at his brother. "Oh, dear," Steven sighed, "We beg you for sanctuary, good woman. Perhaps we may pledge our service in exchange for your protection?"

She cocked an eyebrow, "I don't normally enlist fighters from nowhere, but a rogue element might be just the edge we need. My name is Dahlia, and for now, I'll be your commander. If you've got a weapon, get it out and get ready. The Rosanniens will most likely be headed this way soon."

The trio complied and retrieved their weapons, facing the open plain through which they had just traveled. "I wonder what prompted Rosanne into this fight?" Anna mused aloud, "Virion's not the warmongering sort."

"Wait... red hair, the constitution, and those clothes... you!" Dahlia shouted from behind them. In an instant, she was bearing down on Anna, pointing her sword, "I know who you are, you wench! I'll tear you apart!"

Before the swordswoman could make good on her threat, an arrow flew past her head long enough for the trio to skitter out of her range. Virion, accompanied by a number of assassins and mercenaries, stepped into view. "Take advantage of my good nature, will you?" Dahlia snarled, staring daggers into Anna, "You're more treacherous than even these Rosannien scum. I'll enjoy cutting every one of you to ribbons!"

Anna shrugged, lamented her luck, and held her sword at the ready, "Try me."

* * *

"We've moved on to phase two," Nihilus observed simply, descending the staircase, "The Rosannien forces are scrounging, trying to find a point of attack now."

"You sound almost disappointed," General Argent kept his hands folded behind his back as he followed.

"No," the amethyst-haired man said wistfully, "I expected this. I was hoping to be wrong, but... Well, my intuition hasn't failed me yet." The Silver Soldier glanced at his liege curiously. "Anyway... Argent, this will be your opportunity. Put this trifle of a skirmish to an end."

"I'd be glad to," the general hefted his axe onto the shimmering silver of his shoulder plated and marched slowly out the door. Into the brightening daylight that halted him for the briefest of moments, the general saw something slightly unexpected: the Rosanniens had managed to move forward despite being harried by the castle's defenses and were now firmly locked in combat with the royal guard and the soldiers enlisted for this battle. Argent marched slowly into this melee and tossed several Rosanniens aside with a few quick swings of his axe.

"Not so fast!" a voice seemed to address the general, prompting him to turn his head. A young man with sapphire hair pointed his blade at the general. "My name is Prince Inigo of Ylisse," the youth proclaimed, "You attacked my homeland and my father, prepare to die."

"Cut the theatrics!" a ball of lightning whizzed past the general's head, he pivoted toward its source and found a redheaded girl in loose, tan clothing and a scarf scowling at him.

"And you?" General Argent roared over the crowd.

"My name is Morgan," she shouted back, "You know me as Grandmaster Robin's daughter. I plan to end you and your war."

"Amusing," scoffed the general.

"You haven't heard the best part," came yet a third voice. Ash-black, scraped, bleeding and wearied, the glowing eyes of the Grandmaster appeared from within the crowd and locked themselves onto the general. "General Argent of Lieben, I'll be your opponent."

The Silver Soldier folded his arms before gripping his axe, smiling.

"Argent, I need reinforcements!"

The fighters all turned their heads. Dahlia rushed through the castle's back gate, visible through the front and hall like a portal to a different dimension, "Something's gone wrong! We have interlopers!"

The general scowled, muttering, "Useless... Alas, Grandmaster Robin, it seems our battle is not fated to take place today." The Silver Soldier turned to the door an reentered the hall, the doors forcibly shut behind him before any of the combatants could interrupt.

"No...!" Robin cursed, "I can't let Argent get away, he has to go down. Inigo, Morgan, can I...?"

"As if you have to ask," Inigo chuckled, knocking a cavalier off his steed and gutting him, "Get this ugly business finished."

"We'll be fine," his daughter concurred, "you do what you have to."

"Thank you..." he sighed, then faced the door and frowned anew: heavy iron locks braced the door shut and soldiers would be covering the remaining paths around the castle. Robin couldn't afford to waste time, but he seemed to have no choice, the strategist's greatest nightmare, he lamented.

But in a moment, the locks unhitched themselves and the doors flew open, "Lemme get that for you," a sweet voice giggled. The grandmaster turned to find Sylvia pointing her staff at the door, beaming. "Like it?" she shouted over the rage of battle, "Mom said it was a very rare, old staff, to be saved for special occasions. It's called 'Unlock,' and, well... I think this qualifies."

"Thank you, Sylvia," her father said humbly before rushing through the opened way, taking care to use a wind tome to smash any stragglers inside the castle up against its walls.

As he broke through to the castle's rear, the tactician felt himself completely overwhelmed, paralyzed by a rush of conflicting emotion and thereby rooted to the ground: before him lay his two sons and his wife.

His wife, who looked weary from travel and, presumably, all manner of painful, sordid emotion, as well as all the effects of whatever battles had led her here.

His wife, who, he had been assured was dead, whose ghost he had seen, but who he could tell even at a glance was his betrothed despite all her familiar similarities.

His wife, who was half-collapsed, bearing up her sword unconvincingly so as to guard, as her head was within the range of General Argent's raised axe.


	22. Dear Hearts and Gentle People

Anna swallowed hard, feeling the exhaustion pull down on her arms and legs like cinderblocks chained to each extremity. This man, the glint of his silver armor flashing in her face, along with a similar glare stabbing into her eyes from the curvature of an axe, all of that had appeared from nowhere with a few words. Now, the rose-haired swordmistress they had encountered mere moments ago was off to the side, scowling at her, and in front of her was that massive man. The woman had said his name, but Anna had already forgotten it, seized by the terror that gripped her upon being shoved aside by the enormous weight. And now here she was, holding up her sword, sure that it would be broken in half by a swing of that axe while her two sons were forced to watch in horror; there could be few worse fates. In that extra moment of contemplation, she realized, too, that this would mean she had failed in her goal: Robin was nowhere to be found. They would die separated from one another. That last note extirpated the tune of Anna's thought and she felt the final glows of strength and resilience leave her arms as the axe began to swing down. Unable to watch the curtain close on her play with so despairing a final act, the merchant shut her eyes. In a few seconds, she felt the hot, wet sensation of drops of blood flying onto her arms.

And it only took a second more to realize that it was not her own.

As the merchant opened her eyes, they were met with the matching gaze of her husband, looking back at her and gritting his teeth, his jaw stretched unnaturally and the tensing of his arms causing his eyes to twitch as he held something back. Anna looked past her husband's face and hair to see the axe embedded into his palms, blood seeping out onto the blade and sprayed onto the surrounding area, including his own robes and Anna's shirt sleeves. She ignored the damage to her clothing, however, and returned her gaze to her husband, who, with a wild look in his eyes, shouted a single word back at her: "Run!"

The merchant needed no further provocation and turned in place, sprinting in the opposite direction to put distance between her and her attacker. With a grunt of pain and effort, she heard her husband raise his arms and, once she was able to look back, saw him shove the axe, as well as its floored owner, back a few steps, the blood still dripping from his hands. Anna and the silver-armored general seemed to watch the scene with the same reverence: the undaunted Grandmaster stood, blood seeping from his hands, and stabbed his wife's assailant with his eyes. The general seemed less impressed, however: "The hell...?"

"You've chosen a very bad target," Robin cracked his neck, "that's my wife, and nobody's going to lay a hand on her until I'm dead and buried."

Argent smiled in wholesome manner, as if he'd just been told a knock-knock joke, "Two birds, then."

Robin shrugged and lowered his hand to retrieve his sword, immediately painting its grip red with his wounds. Anna raised an eyebrow as her mouth creased in concern.

The Silver Soldier scoffed, "You can't even hold that thing. You don't stand a chance, tactician. Go hide behind your books while the real troops do the fighting for you."

"I've been fighting alongside my men for the whole of my tenure," he replied without flinching, "I'm eager to see what's behind all that talk."

It was at this point that Anna extended her arm and opened her mouth to launch a protest, but another voice stole the sound away: "Argent." The tone was loud and commanding, but declarative rather than imperative. The parties on the ground searched left and right for its source, they even looked on high, but eventually the eyes settled on a figure stepping slowly out from the castle, exiting from the same area as had Robin. His hair was a lustrous amethyst and was combed smoothly, parted just a few inches from the center. His face was soft, almost feminine, by the sharpness of his eyes corrected any mistake; they were dark brown, such that they melted into his pupils, giving them the look of pure onyx when he was in shadow. Around this man's neck was a loose-fitting robe or cloak, navy blue in the daylight, its buckles unfastened to display a burgundy shirt beneath, as well as a pair of caramel-colored trousers, separated from the remained of the outfit by a black leather belt with gold trimmings and a silver buckle.

The man's sharp eyes looked over the Grandmaster before all else, despite the name he had called. He ran them up and down his foe's figure in an instant; if any among the group had blinked, they would have missed the gesture. Finally, he deigned to speak, "Stand down, Argent. Grandmaster Robin's not your target."

"But defeating him will render the enemy powerless, tactically," argued his general, a hint of frustration not well hidden.

The amethyst-haired man shook his head derisively, as if he were speaking to a child, "True, but it's not your call. You sought me for strategic assistance, and I'm giving it to you: don't engage this one."

The general folded his arms, "I think this is a mistake."

"When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it, good general," the man shrugged. He turned to face Robin, who was evidently confused, but still clutching his sword. "Forgive my associate, Grandmaster Robin... he's simply ruined this occasion for me. I'd hoped we could meet under better circumstances."

"Should I know you?" Robin stepped out of his fighting stance, glaring warily at the stranger.

"Not at all," the man smiled as if this was the best joke he'd ever told. "My name," he savored the moment, closing his eyes and reopening them at the tactician, "is Nihilus. I command these forces."

That broke Robin's concentration, and he cocked an eyebrow, "I thought General Argent led the Liebenese."

Nihilus chuckled, again, perhaps too hard, at this, "Indeed, he does, however, I am General Argent's tactician."

The Grandmaster nodded comprehensively, "I see... Well, I commend your skill. Your defense of this area was brilliant."

"As was your response," Nihilus grinned, "we should compare notes."

"Perhaps," even Robin cracked a smile, "but I have a battle to win first."

"Quite," Argent was staring back down at the tactician.

"Enough," the amethyst-haired man hissed at his lieutenant, "We'll finish this battle by annihilating the enemy forces, plain and simple."

"And do you think he'll just get out of the way?" Argent gestured toward Robin.

Nihilus smiled again, turning to his opponent, "What do you think? Will you let General Argent crush these Rosanniens? Our discourse can be much more pleasant that way."

"If I say no?" the tactician was growing more unsettled.

Nihilus snapped his fingers and, at once, Robin heard the sounds of struggling. A woman with rose-colored hair sat down three figures, all of them bound by lengths of rope and squirming: they were Anna, Steven, and Leo. In disbelief, Robin swiveled his head one hundred eighty degrees and saw that his family had been stolen out from under him, "How...?"

"Dahlia's a very quick girl, in more ways than one," the amethyst-haired man smiled less wholesomely, "Fail to accede to my demands and I'll tear into each pretty little neck, starting with your darling bride."

"Don't you dare, Robin!" his red-clad betrothed barked, ripping at her bindings, "I'd much rather die than give this creep anything he wants!"

"Chatty girl," the amethyst-haired man quipped before snapping his fingers again and revealing a thunder tome beneath his robe. Anna shuddered in a wave of painful shouts before falling limp.

"Bastard!" Robin began to step forward.

"Now, now," Nihilus waved his finger disapprovingly, "No sudden moves, or I might have to draw blood. I just want to talk, Grandmaster Robin. Don't waste your effort or family on Argent, here; he's beneath you."

That prompted a violent response on the general's face, "Beneath him?! This shell of a strategist can't hold a candle to my power!"

"Poor, misguided general," Nihilus lamented, "Many men have difficulty having their illusions shattered, but you can't fight Grandmaster Robin, simple as that. You'll be killed. When have I steered you wrong?"

The general marched over and bent his head to his tactician, then punched the amethyst-haired man in the stomach, knocking him down instantly. "...Men assume I know little because, unlike the body politic, I say little. I was convinced you were different from those men, Lord Nihilus, that you understood true wisdom is found in silence. I am saddened to say I misjudged you. I do not care for cowardly tactics such as taking hostages," declared the Silver Soldier, leaving his commander and untying his captives. When Dahlia tried to stop him, he threw her aside as well. "But above all, I do not care to be told to back down from a challenge," Argent continued, "Men like you and I, Grandmaster Robin, we do not find peace through parley and politic; we make peace by breaking down our foe, is that not so?"

"I've yet to have that strategy fail me," Robin nodded.

"Then, come, break yourself against me," Argent lifted his axe onto his shoulder. Robin shrugged, swallowed, and came running with his sword. Not surprisingly, the attack bounced off ineffectively. Argent took a swing with his axe, but the tactician dodged it with little difficulty. "So you see," Argent scoffed, "you cannot win."

"There's more than one person way to skin a cat," Robin returned, pulling out one of his tomes and flicking through the pages.

"None of that!" Argent shouted. Robin's attempt at spellcasting was interrupted by an axe flying toward his face.

"Damn," he muttered to himself. Seeing few other options, the Grandmaster jumped forward and tried a flurry of direct strikes again, all of which similarly failed to make so much as a scratch on the General's armor. Argent kneed his opponent, knocking him back, then prepared a sweep with his axe. He was interrupted by the whistling of an arrow. Familiar with this sound, however, Argent ducked beneath the shot and looked back for its source, finding it in Leo, who looked particularly miffed by his failure.

"Nettling little coward," growled the general, "this battle is one-on-one. Stay out of the way." Another arrow flew at his head, also narrowly dodged. This time, Argent minced no words and lobbed a throwing axe at the assassin, who scrambled out of the way.

"Better pay attention," Argent heard before his back exploded with heat, prompting an anguished grunt and another turn to find Steven waving a fire tome at him, "There's no way you can defeat us all at once."

"Is that so?" the general scoffed. He turned his back on Steven and marched toward his brother. Shocked by this development, Steven rifled nervously through his tome and flung another rocket of flame at the pile of silver armor, but the assault was ignored. General Argent continued to march toward Leo until he was on top of the young assassin, at which point he stole the young man's bow and snapped it like a twig. Afterward, he picked the assassin up, punched him in the face and slammed him into the dirt with a show of intense irritation.

"Leo!" Steven ran toward his brother, unaware that he would be clotheslined by the general's axe as the ran. He fell clutching the gash in his chest.

"You're a real pain to bring down, I'll give you that," Robin announced, standing.

The general smiled, "Such bravado, even now... You're a madman. I see now why Nihilus feared you; he despises such disorder. Men are not as logical as he chooses to believe, and that's what undoes him. You and I, however... we understand the human condition well."

"Right," Robin nodded, "sometimes things happen when you-" The Grandmaster threw up his hand and chanted, causing a pillar of flame to erupt beneath Argent.

"Smart bastard," the Silver Soldier grunted as he endured the flame, "but I think that's all you've got in your bag of tricks." He continued forward, denying the tactician time to prepare another spell. Instead, Robin drew his sword and readied himself to go on the defensive again. Argent began swinging, and Robin judged it necessary to dodge; even guarding against such crushing blows would do more harm to him than he could endure for long, and endure was very much what he needed to do. Of course, even leaping side to side to avoid the colossal swings, Robin was getting fatigued more quickly than his well-built adversary. After a dozen more swipes, the tactician was sweating and mistimed his move, his cloak catching and helping Argent pin him to the ground. "Your persistence is admirable, but futile. You have lost, Grandmaster Robin. Now, accept death and fall silent," the general swung his axe down one more time.

But again he was flung back. At the end of the disruption this time, a shaky hand clad in red clutched a jagged-looking blade. One of Anna's eyes was barely held open and it was staring directly at her husband as he returned the look. "I thought I was finished with all these nuisances," a more frustrated than truly trouble Argent spat. He trudged over toward Anna, who took the cue to use the last of her strength to fling the blade at her husband. He caught hit as it slid along the ground, past the Silver Soldier, and instantly understood its value.

"Stay back!" a newly confident Robin commanded, rising.

Argent didn't answer, but instead flung another axe at the Grandmaster. This time, however, Robin ran forward and swatted the projectile down with his new tool. Afterward, he raised the implement skyward and a strike of lightning bore into the Silver Soldier's armor. Now Argent was ready to respond. He turned yet again and began to rush forward as best he could, directing his might into his axe as he swung it forward. On this occasion, however, Robin held out his own blade and let their attacks connect. Blood spurted from Robin's wounds as trauma rippled through them afresh, but General Argent broke the deadlock: he was sent into a series of convulsions by a sudden shock. The Grandmaster didn't waste his advantage: he slashed several times in rapid succession along the general's armor, each time disorienting the opponent more and more until he fell to his knees. With the last of his breath, Robin drew out the Levin sword for a long swing and dragged it at chest height, cutting cleanly with cauterizing heat through the Silver Soldier's neck.

Robin, his sword, his wife, and the two new halves of the Silver Soldier, General Argent, fell to the ground.

* * *

"So..." Lucina rounded off as she looked to the faces of the other members of her meeting, "Long story short, we're at a crossroads. The presence from the mercenaries, whose origins are still murky, is minimal at present, but if we give them leeway now, they might overwhelm us with reinforcements at some point."

"But if we don't engage the Feroxi, they'll overrun Ylisse and drive us into the sea," Frederick surmised, frowning sternly at the map before them.

"Precisely," the sapphire-haired princess nodded.

"Why not just split us down the middle and go after both?" Donnel shrugged.

"We already had to flee the Feroxi," Lucina answered, "Going at them with half our number would be suicide."

"Times like this, I really wish we still had a little strategic advice," Ylisse's other princess sighed, face buried in her elbows, which were folded on the table.

"Hoping won't do us much good, I'm afraid," Lucina tried to redirect the conversation. She did not mention that she, too, had a hope: she was praying her father would reappear somehow and take this cup from her, but, of course, this was impossible. The entire point of this campaign had been the rescue of Exalt Chrom, but even weeks later he was no closer to being found as far as Lucina was aware. Hope, as a whole, was growing thin for everyone in Ylisse.

And so Lucina's heart sank when she heard a guardsman call, "Lady Lucina, you'll want to see this!"

The princess and her meeting's attendees all filed out of the tent to see column upon column of soldiers marching along the hills toward her camp. She cursed and reached for her sword, but when none of her companions did the same, she paused and looked back to the advancing troops: they wore onyx armor and sported a standard that was hard to make out in the distance, but slowly revealed itself as a stylized, snakelike "P." That insignia could belong to only one nation, though it made Lucina no more certain of their intent; Plegians were approaching.

Many of the Legacy Shepherds were already arming themselves, as well as the Ylissean soldiers who were camped not far from the command tent, but Lucina superseded them all and marched straight for the center of the Plegian column, doing her best to keep a straight face despite her mind reeling. She was already beginning to sweat; news of another attack would likely drive her to faint, the but regardless of her nerves and corresponding shakiness, the princess stopped out in front of the black-clad army as they came to a halt. From within their ranks, a white-haired man with a peculiar and unsettling grin approached Lucina. "State your name and your business, sir," Lucina tried to sound commanding without being too forceful or aggressive.

The man kept on grinning, "You don't recognize me? I guess the last time you'd have seen me, you'd have been much younger, so it makes sense. My name is Henry, King of Plegia! And this is my special little princess, Noire!"

Lucina hadn't even taken note of the thin, pale, unassuming girl who was saddled to the king's side. She, too, had white hair, perhaps a proof of her lineage. Frankly, though, Lucina didn't want to look at the girl for too long; it seemed even a simple stare might break her, frail as she was. "And what are you doing here?" the princess demanded, slightly reassured by the fact that the Plegian king had his daughter with him.

"I heard East Ferox made a move on you guys, those nasty cheaters," he chuckled, amusing himself.

"Yes...?" Lucina begged for more explanation.

"Well, Plegia's here to take the fight back to 'em!" King Henry's smile seemed to widen.

"Really?" Lucina stumbled back, "I mean, er... That is... Uh, King Henry, not that I protest, but why have you chosen to put yourself in harm's way like this?"

"Something tells me our heads'll be next. And while the idea of being able to look at myself from the opposite end of a guillotine makes me happier than a pig in slop," Lucina winced at the thought, "Most of my citizenry don't feel the same, and I have to do right by them. Well, that, and I got a nicely worded letter from my dear wife."

"Your wife?" the sapphire-haired girl shrugged.

"Sure, Tharja," Henry clued her in, "She told me you guys patched her up, gave her some help, and she was grateful. That was lucky; Tharja never feels indebted to anyone!"

"So..." the princess sighed, "Does this mean you have a plan?"

"I have instructions from Tharja," he nodded, "You take the rest of your Shepherds out to Tortoise Peninsula, that's where you'll find the mercenaries' base. Once you kick them out, you should be able to find your dad, or, at least learn where he is."

"What about you?" she continued.

"I'll take my nice, big army, join it with what's left of yours, and go give those Eastern Feroxi a big ol' kick in the teeth. It'll be fun to spill a little fresh blood," the king of Plegian flashed another broad grin.

Frederick interjected in the negotiations, "Pardon me, but I can't abide you simply taking our forces out of Lady Lucina's control."

This was the first time Henry came close to a frown, "It's not like that. I'll keep them safe, I just need the extra manpower. Think of it more like a loan: as soon as Lucina comes back with Chrom, the entire offense, his troops and mine, are all at his disposal. Pretty good deal in the long run."

"We don't have much in the way of options," Lucina lobbied to Frederick.

The great knight sighed, "We'll waste no time in finding Exalt Chrom."

"Naturally," Lucina agreed, "I want to save him every bit as much as you, Frederick."

"And you won't simply waste Ylissean lives?" Frederick glared lowly at Henry.

"All your troops are beat-up anyway," he shrugged flippantly, "Sending my units first is just the logical maneuver."

"Let's make this a quick rescue," Frederick resigned.

Lucina nodded and held her chest, feeling ready to burst with excitement or cry, perhaps both. All at once, she had been given another chance, and she would not waste it: she would find her father and save her country, no doubt about it.

* * *

Dahlia rose to her feet after stumbling for a second, putting her hand to her head and feeling her disheveled rose-colored hair. She looked about, slowly re-absorbing the details of the situation, and she was quickly reminded of her master. As soon as the headaches stopped, the swordswoman took several shaky steps toward the spot where she had last seen her superior. Nihilus was already standing again, though not without difficulty. He did not acknowledge Dahlia as she drifted close. "Well," Dahlia sighed aloud to announce herself, "things might not have gone precisely according to plan, but we do have Grandmaster Robin exactly where we need him." She stared at the collapsed bodies of Robin and the now-beheaded Argent.

"It's impossible," Nihilus muttered, not audibly in reply.

"I wouldn't be too disappointed, sir. Argent was bold, but a fool. He got exactly the end he desired," Dahlia supposed.

"No, but he..." the amethyst-haired man grasped at the air, appearing to watch something trickle between his fingers, "It wasn't..."

His subordinate took note of his disturbance: "I encourage you to forget this quickly, milord. Argent was a simpleton who disobeyed orders."

Nihilus didn't respond and stared at the dirt beneath him a moment more until he and his lieutenant's ears picked up the sound of flapping wings. An ebon bird descended and perched itself on the shoulder of Argent's armor, staring contemplatively at its former master. Nihilus, in turn, watched it closely, both of their decisions evidently riding on this moment. Dahlia glanced up from the scene and found a hawk also circling above their heads. She grimaced: Argent had always been obsessed with these damn fowl, and they followed him to every occasion, even death, apparently. After a few moments of careful consideration, the onyx bird hopped down to the newly appended portion of his master's neck and, upon inspection, began to peck at the wound and tear off the flesh.

Nihilus turned his head, waving his hand at Dahlia to indicate revilement. He took one final glance at the corpse as he trudged away from the deteriorating, blood-soaked battlefield and felt a cold run through his body, making him shiver involuntarily. The amethyst-haired man closed his eyes to silence his nerves and continued forward. He paused again, however, eyes registering a new thought, and withdrew a scrap of paper from his cloak along with a quill. He scratched something onto the parchment quickly and walked back over to the mess of bodies, planting it beneath the fallen Grandmaster, and then returned while Dahlia watched in abject confusion. "What was that?" the Rose Blade demanded as they walked.

"A preclusion," her superior answered curtly, "Come. We have to proceed with the plan."

Dahlia paused and watched Nihilus walked by her, frowning so he could see her protest, then resigned and followed him regardless.

* * *

The boy clenched his fist and felt his teeth grind together. A fight was about to happen. There was no way to avoid the coming conflict, not that he wanted to, at any rate. The moment wasn't far off, even though he would be completely in control of what triggered it. He could wait outside in the slow drizzle for hours and nothing would come of it, but as soon as he opened that door, it would all come rushing to a close. And he had decided that, regardless the result, that was what he wanted. As such, he turned the knob and opened the thin wood door. As the boy stepped inside, he saw a shadow cast on the wall by low, amber candlelight: A girl pressed against the wall. A man held her there. As if there were any mystery to the situation. "Doctor," the boy stated, suggesting nothing further needed to be said.

"Young Nihilus," came the reply, "You think I didn't hear about your actions this evening?"

"No, I assumed you would."

"That's a good assumption. But you must know this was against our agreement."

"I'm in the mood to renegotiate."

"I wasn't offering."

Nihilus pointed his finger and saw its shadow play upon the wall as he looked into his mentor's eyes, "You put her in a position to get hurt."

The Doctor shrugged, "And so I'm liable? Congrats, young attorney, you won the lawsuit. You think I didn't know that? I was testing her, just like I was testing you. You must have known."

"She didn't need to be tested. I'm the one you cared about, aren't I?"

"Insightful. But I don't allow for liabilities. I would have killed her if she couldn't do what was necessary. But she proved strong, resolute, willing to do anything to pull her own weight, to keep you two safe... Unlike you. It's a shame you're so indifferent to her fate; she obviously cares a lot about you."

The young man almost leapt there, but held his fists down and swallowed his rage to maintain his composure, "I don't abide people I care about getting hurt."

"Which is why you're a failure. You know what happens in the real world when you turn around and pull your friend off of that cliff? You get a knife stuck in your back and you both plummet off the side. And three days later, someone loots your corpses."

"I think I'm in a much better position to see what's in my future than you."

"Mm. One little talent and you think you're so much better than everyone else. Let me give you another dose of reality: you're nothing. You're a kid with a hot head and a weapon in your hand. You have no sense of purpose, no direction for your stupid, impetuous, childish anger and desire to lash out against the world. You're a toddler shaking your fists and crying when you could be standing up and walking for yourself."

"These admonitions aren't going to change my mind."

"At least you always had that much. And you're bold, too: do you really expect to be able to kill me?"

"I can't do anything worse than try."

"On that we can agree," the Doctor nodded, flexing his wrists, "You're an ungrateful lad, you know. I saved you from abandonment and gave you the tools to survive."

"You saw an opportunity and took it," the boy answered, "I've seen the clues, I'd have to be blind to have missed them. How long were you tracking me?"

A smile spread across the Doctor's lips, but one that did not inspire any sort of felicity, "Quite some time. You threw me for a lot of loops, and even when I found you, I had to play it cool, else I would have lost my shot for good. Years and years... more than a decade spent arranging all the pieces... only for you to decide you're too good for me... you miserable street rat."

"Glad we cleared the air," Nihilus added, frowning, "So, who sent you?"

The Doctor chuckled an exceedingly mirthless laugh, "Why in Naga's name would I tell you that? Why don't we say my search was self-motivated? After all, who wouldn't want to find the lost son of Validar? A tool to master the world is a treasure worth searching the whole breadth of said world."

"Validar?" the boy cocked an eyebrow, "My father's name was Al'dyr."

That, for once, gave the Doctor pause, "Al'dyr? That name has come up before... But I assumed that to be a dead lead, for obvious reasons. Is it true, then...?"

Now Nihilus smirked, "So, does this mean you chased the wrong target all this time? Who did you think I was?"

"You're Plegian, are you not? The markings on your skin, it's unquestionable."

Nihilus rolled up one of his sleeves to examine the markings of his birth, his only inheritance and felt a bizarre sense of relief on being reminded of the harassment he once faced for these markings, but that was in another life. "My mother was Plegian. My father was born in the Bhu'dey Dynasty."

The Doctor tried to manage a smile, "So, you deceived me all along."

"Only the deception of omission," he shrugged.

"How many clairvoyant strategists do they have in Plegia?" the Doctor asked with amusement.

"Evidently, at least two," Nihilus folded his arms, "And you latched on to the wrong one. What a laugh."

"Well," the Doctor dusted himself off, "I need to begin a new investigation, so let's get this over with."

Nihilus prepared to respond, but his mentor was already upon him, and the boy barely intercepted a knife aimed at his throat by holding up the Doctor's arm. A knee to the boy's stomach followed, but he endured it and pushed away to create distance for a punch to his foe's face. The Doctor's head shifted out of its range easily and he responded by raking his blade along Nihilus's lower body. The boy felt the wound flash in a hot streak across his chest, like a scalding pan dropped on his stomach, but he fought through the urge to crumple and redoubled his stance, kicking his mentor in the shin.

"Good," the Doctor grinned angrily, "so you did learn something." He threw a left hook a Nihilus's head, knocking the boy back and taking aim with his knife. Nihilus ducked beneath the swipe, still coming to his senses. The Doctor followed up and swung the blade in the other direction, but the boy grabbed his foe's wrist and attempted to twist it behind its owner's back. The Doctor played along with the motion, then flipped his opponent up, letting the boy roll down his back. As the amethyst-haired boy crumpled to the floor, the Doctor took another stab, but the boy kicked his legs out from underneath him. They both rose to their feet slowly, and the Doctor charged forward again, seeming to draw on an endless well of stamina. This time, however, Nihilus felt his vision become fuzzy for a moment, and then intensely, almost painfully sharp: he watched the Doctor stab at his chest, just above his right pectoral, and then suddenly saw the same move occurring a second later, but, of course, he knew this was not simply a vision. Nihilus clapped his hands around the Doctor's arm in what seemed an impossibly precise anticipation of the maneuver, as if he'd already been holding them out before the attack. With his position of power, Nihilus tossed his foe to the ground by throwing all of his weight toward the wall. He stumbled a bit, but the Doctor fell hard on his back. The Doctor attempted the same tactic of kicking out the boy's legs, but he leapt above the kick despite staring the Doctor in the eye. Changing strategies, the Doctor dove forward and tackled the youth, who spun around and sent his assailant flying in the other direction.

The man got back on his feet and came at the amethyst-haired boy once more, driving his knife at the boy in every conceivable direction, but the boy effortlessly shifted his head and shrugged off every strike. "It shouldn't be possible," the Doctor panted, "if you're not the one, then... you shouldn't be able..."

"Clearly, a lot of things about my life shouldn't be," Nihilus retorted, jabbing the Doctor in the stomach, "I live only by a series of strange coincidences, but life isn't made up of what should and should not be, it's only what really happens." The boy struck the Doctor again and knocked the tall man to his knees, then kicked his fatigued adversary in the face, knocking him over, "Some live, some die, that's the catalyst of life. And on the other end, some of us come out stronger, better. In point of fact, how little my probability of being here, now to fight you, how much that 'shouldn't' be the case... That's exactly why you should be terrified of me right now. It means I've tasted despair and impossible odds and am greater for it."

"Philosophizing doesn't make you the victor!" the Doctor grunted.

"No, this does," Nihilus jumped forward quickly, landing on his mentor's wrist and breaking it, taking the knife from his briefly slackened grip in the same motion. The Doctor reached for Nihilus's boot, but the boy jumped out of the way once more, this time onto the Doctor's stomach, stomping all the wind from his body. Seizing upon the Doctor's paralysis, Nihilus turned the knife in his hand and drove it into the Doctor's neck. One, two, three, four, five, he drew a thick line and a small spray of blood with every stab, slowly coating his hand and sleeve with the Doctor's life, unwittingly shouting each time he struck until he wore himself out and collapsed forward.

The amethyst-haired boy sucked in air for a minute or longer, time seemed of little consequence at this precise moment, before he could lift his head and see the Doctor, a concave shape dug into his throat and blood seeping from it. Absorbing this realization, taking in the gravity of his feet, the boy knelt, panting for a few moments longer before standing up shakily. As his bearings returned to him, he turned to the back of the room where the dark-haired girl remained frozen, her eyes following him, but distant. He guessed she hadn't moved during the whole affair. "Cypress," his lips formed a loose smile. She didn't reciprocate the gesture and, instead, stared warily at the blood-soaked implement in his hand. Nihilus, realizing this, glanced down at it, too, and dropped it in short order. The knife had weighed a ton, but it only made a few metallic "tinks" as it hit the floor. He took a step toward his friend, but her eyes widened and she stepped back from him, holding her arms to her chest, her face clearly suppressing a scream. "Cypress," the boy begged, "it's over now. We're free. We can live for ourselves. I can make money for us, and... And you'll never have to do anything you don't want to and..." Nihilus took another step toward her, "Come on."

She couldn't contain herself anymore: Cypress let out a shrill scream and darted past her friend into the darkness of the rainy night, bumping his shoulder as she skittered away, her footsteps making loud, splashy echoes as she tore down the street. Nihilus remained still, staring at where his friend had stood, not bothering to turn around. He listened quietly to the rain as it fell, and to the sounds of people lingering about in the wet street, horses whinnying and stomping loudly in puddles, rushed footsteps hastening toward home, dogs barking in the distance, and the noise faded into a deep numbness, a catatonia in which the amethyst-haired boy found himself. Not paying attention to anything but the sounds of the rain, he sunk to the floor, lowering his head until he was laid out across the hard, cold wood, and closed his eyes.

He would remain there for the evening, with the door open, alone, save the corpse beside him.

* * *

Sylvia held her staff delicately as her staff sewed up the last of the line cut across her older brother, watching the skin be mended with great relief. As Steven's eyes fluttered open, he seemed to have trouble perceiving her, as he squinted multiple times as though he were trying to discern the sun's position. "Sylvia?" the silver-haired man managed through a choking voice.

"Glad you could join us, Steve," she smiled back pleasantly.

"Oh, Sylvie!" her brother leapt to his feet immediately and, without warning, scooped her off of her feet and spun her around in a circle, "Thank goodness! Big brother was so worried about you!"

Sylvia blushed and felt her brother start a bit, then slowly let her down, clutching at his abdomen, "No need to make it weird, Steve. I was with daddy the whole time. Well, almost the whole time."

Steven wiped his eye with his index finger and cleared his throat, "Ahem, er, right. Your big brother is very pleased to see you unharmed, Sylvia."

"Likewise, you goof," she buried her head in his chest for a moment. As the pair separated, their heads turned opposite directions, facing down to their mother and father, respectively, and both rushed to the lost parent's side. Likewise, each parent was slowly rising, shaking their heads and shielding their eyes from the sudden burst of sunlight.

Morgan and Leo, too, embraced on the other side of their family, both doing their best to hide their tears from one another. Morgan complimented her brother on his new scarf and he, in turn professed an awkward and fumbling fondness for her new hairdo, which elicited a laugh from his baby sister, for which the assassin was grateful.

Inigo, Virion, Gerome, and Cherche had gathered, running their troops through the castle to clear it and round up those Liebenese who had surrendered, and they now knew well enough, at least at Cherche's entreaty, to stay away from the recovering family.

Robin got to his feet with support from both of his sons, who were both fiercely competitive about helping him up more effectively. prompting a laugh from the old Grandmaster. The man stroked his beard fondly as he took a moment to bask in his pride, looking at his two boys, seeing the calculation and intelligence in both their eyes and the strength in their musculature, he knew straight away that no harm could have come to either of them. How could it? They were his sons, and therefore invincible masters of the battlefield. "Helluva fight, pops," Leo remarked simply as he stretched his arms.

"I was equally impressed with your performance," Robin nodded, "both of you."

"I'm the only one that really got a good hit in, though," Leo added.

"That little shot that he shook off like a ball of tinfoil? Honestly, Leo," Steven shook his head.

"Like your little sparkler changed anything!" his brother barked back, "Anyway, it was my strategy, so there!"

"What?!" Steven gritted his teeth, "Are you mad? It was mine!"

"Boys!" their father said more definitely, "Both of you."

"Yes, father," they rubbed their necks, feeling a hot wave of embarrassment run over them for squabbling in their father's presence, as had always been the case. Robin put an arm around both of their backs and hugged them to his sides. Neither wanted to be the first to succumb, but both brothers closed their eyes and leaned into the embrace, more contented than they could ever admit to be back beside their father.

Anna's ascent was a bit slower, as she rose first into a sitting position so that Sylvia could run her hands all about her, fitfully diagnosing any cut or scrape as a sign of certain, critical injury. Eventually, the brunette was halted by a hand placed on her shoulder by her younger sister. Morgan only stared mistily into her mother's eyes and croaked, "It's, uh, really good to see you're okay, mom."

The redheaded merchant staggered to her feet and bear-hugged both of her daughters, squeezing them and their faces together in the process, "I'm glad you're both safe, too, girls. Mom was so worried about both of you." She kissed their heads a few times each.

"No worries, daddy took great care of us," Sylvia relayed with a giant, white grin.

"Yeah... 'great,'" Morgan said less enthusiastically.

"Morgan, please not now, honey," Anna shook her head slightly.

"Sorry, mom," her face was still stained with tears, "I missed you."

Anna kissed her head again, "I missed you too. I love both of you girls so much." The trio of females wiped away the last of their tears together before breaking up the embrace, smiling and laughing. As they parted, however, there was only one thing left in Anna's field of view. And the same was true of Robin.

The parents stepped away from their children, who all also came together, but further away, and intermingled and shared relief at one another's survival as they watched the meeting develop. Both Robin and Anna met one another at a midpoint between where they had started and the two stood opposite each other for several seconds without saying anything, as if they were each waking up for the first time. Anna came forward first, and promptly gave her husband a stiff slap across the face, "What the hell were you thinking, leaving our house without telling me?! I searched entire countries worried sick because I was growing increasingly certain that you'd gone and gotten yourself killed, you stupid... stupid... asshole!" Her composure broke and she collapsed into tears, leaning her head and arms into his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry," was all he could say, "I knew Morgan was down there, and you were out that way, too. I don't know how I found her but missed you, all I can say is... I... just... oh, thank the gods you're alive, Anna. I don't think I could have gone on without you."

"Likewise," she stared at him with wet, glassy eyes, "You dumb, dumb bastard."

Despite a brief protest, Virion broke rank and greeted the family, "Well, this is a fabulous denouement to our little tale of separation and tribulation, wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, now that Lieben and General Argent are down for the count, I think we've got things about wrapped up," Sylvia supposed. Morgan wore an uncertain frown.

Robin mimicked her in his tone of voice, "I don't think it's quite that simple; Argent was involved in the attack on Ylisse, no doubt, but the Liebenese weren't its orchestrarors. If those who were with me at the time will recall, there was something wrong with the people in that town near Valm Harbor."

"And there was that man I spoke to, Nihilus," Morgan added.

Her father nodded, "I believe I met him today. Argent retaliated against him, but he was definitely the one pulling the Silver Soldier's strings."

"Oh no," Anna shook her head, "We're done here. No more war for my husband. You're coming home with me this instant and helping me manage the shop like you promised you would."

"A-Anna," he stammered, unable to properly disagree, "it's not that I want to, it's... well..."

"I don't want to hear it," she began dragging him away by the hand, "Whoever attacked Ylisse can rot and burn, but they are not gonna take my husband away from me."

"But Ylisse could still be in danger, and, by that token, so could your home... Our home," Morgan countered, "and, if that's the case... Dad's our best hope of putting this business to bed."

Robin and Anna both looked at their daughter with scrutiny, Robin with a partially opened mouth, then they exchanged looks at one another until Anna sighed with great lamentation. "Fine, we'll figure this thing out and end it, but I refuse to leave your side until it's over."

"To that much, I can happily acquiesce," Robin held his wife and kissed her.

"But, where do we go from here?" Steven was stroking his chin, "Do we have any other leads?"

"As a matter of fact," Robin noted as his and his wife's lips parted, "There is one thing." In his hands, Robin held a scrap of paper which displayed a crude map of the eastern continent with marks specifically indicating the capitals of Regna Ferox and Ylisse. Of particular interest were a pair of notes written hastily on the page: arrows, one leading to Regna Ferox's capital that read "5 days" and one leading to Ylisstol that read "3 days."


	23. Bloody Storm

Chrom stood on the edge of the galleon, looking out to the port that lay just ahead. He would be back on his own shores soon, a fact that sent a stir through his heart and a resultant shudder up his spine. Olivia watched, too, and neared him in his contemplation. "It feels like we've been gone an eternity, doesn't it?"

"I half-expected to find it in ashes," the exalt admitted honestly, reassured by the tranquility offered by golden daylight settling banally on the areas surrounding the port. Chrom could make out movement, people participating in their routines, presumably, which served to reassure him that his home was safe, and that his daughter was as well. Anything resembling patience within him was quickly evaporating. Olivia draped her hands over the railing, also staring with anticipation into the available expanse. Chrom wanted to rush the captain in their approach, but it was obvious the sailor was less than pleased with his current undertaking and would not be willing to make any further concessions for the sake of the exalt or his wife.

So they would wait, adrift upon the gentle waters, until the wind guided them closer. "Do you think Lucina will be back in Ylisstol?" Olivia wondered, unable to quiet her thoughts.

"It's possible," Chrom supposed, rubbing the bit of navy stubble that clung to his exalted chin, "but I would have to assume she'd be out looking for us."

"Unless Frederick forced her to stay home," the dancer exhaled with a smile.

Chrom snorted, "That may be as well. But then, Lucina's a more stubborn girl than she lets on. Frederick would have his work cut out for him if he tried to hold her back."

"I'm sure he has plenty of experience dealing with stubborn royal children," Olivia continued idly.

Chrom cocked an eyebrow and turned to face his wife, "Was that... did you just make a sarcastic remark about me?"

The pink-haired queen of Ylisse paused, "Did I? ...Hum. I suppose I did."

The sapphire-haired lord chuckled, shaking his head, "You're a very different woman than when I met you, Olivia. The years have changed you much."

"I-I'm sorry," she mewled, "I just... well, I try to be helpful as a ruler, but I know I'm no use, so I was trying to at least look like I knew what I was doing, but I guess that just makes me look as unconvincing as a Feroxi warrior trying to play a merchant girl."

"Or maybe not," Chrom sighed, "You don't need to apologize, Olivia. I appreciate your determination. You fill the role of queen very well, and I'm very happy that our children will be able to learn from your shining example."

Olivia blushed hotly and covered her face, "I'm not deserving of such praise. I still sound like a mewling kitten when I try to be authoritative."

"But you never stop asserting yourself, despite your... anxiety," the exalt rebutted.

"You're really too kind," she shrunk.

"And you're too modest," her husband hugged her.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing."

* * *

It had been a long march to get to this point, but the path ahead was clear. There would be only one opportunity to strike at the mercenaries, and it would be presenting itself momentarily. The Legacy Shepherds had only one advantage on the excessive numbers of their opponents: surprise. And that advantage could slip away like so many grains of sand at any moment, so Lucina was determined to direct the attack sooner rather than later. Frederick, of course, had resisted what Lucina later admitted was rashness of thought, but she was growing steadily frustrated with her continued attendance upon the knight captain's plea for a reconnaissance opportunity.

Frederick had abandoned his armor, not without a pang of regret, and had similarly disencumbered his horse to appear as a simple aged traveller so as to reduce suspicion of his examining the perimeter. He studied the camp closely at surface level while his wife's pegasus beat its wings as slowly as possible overhead to reduce the noise. Sumia needed to be even more careful, frequently landing on the roofs of buildings that provided shelter, as there was no good way for a flying animal and its rider to avoid attracting attention on a cloudless day in a camp with a very low skyline.

That being the case, most of the reconnaissance fell to Frederick. The knight captain strolled along the edge of the camp as slowly as possible on his steed, taking care not to gaze out at the area too frequently so as not to appear too interested. His observations were keen, of course, as he prided himself on his battlefield insight. The enemy seemed surprisingly few in number, considering that this was their forward operating base for a large-scale invasion of Ylisse. At most, there were a hundred men within the camp. At least, there were about fifty. It was difficult to tell if individuals were the same with so few glances allowed. The center of the camp was the real focal point, however: tents spread out in a variety of directions from a tall stone tower. Said tower had few windows through which to observe the outside world, making its purpose difficult to determine, but a few flames flickered in the small point of view that could be ascertained for ground level. Logic dictated it was probably a command post of sorts.

In terms of strategic weaknesses, the camp had few. Guards were posted at the only available entrance, the one on the side of the camp that didn't face the sea. The guards changed shifts, of course, but they did so rapidly, and other eyes frequently watched the gates, prohibiting any opportunity to step in and avoid the watch. If the Legacy Shepherds were to mount an offensive, surprise would remain their only ally. Attacks would otherwise only be at an advantage if delivered from above or from behind the camp, neither of which were really an option.

Such was the grave news reported to Lucina. The princess took this information with a low sigh, but she shook her head resolutely, knowing that difficulty was only to be expected in a mission such as this. She spoke to Stahl and Sully and commanded them to rally the remainder of the Legacy Shepherds. This would be her opportunity to put her right foot forward again after her previous failing. She would succeed. Sumia glided down from the skies, smiling at the princess as Frederick slowly began to gather his armor once more.

* * *

"Bah..." the pair heard the captain grumble from off the deck. Chrom was distracted for an instant, but he couldn't fully pull himself away from the odd and yet vaguely familiar flags flying over the port, surrounded by tents. The colors were neither Ylissean nor Feroxi, and the men and women who milled about the port bore weapons, so they were no refugees. Something was happening here, and it disturbed Chrom greatly.

Olivia, on the other hand, did manage to concentrate on their guide, who ascended the gangplank frustratedly. "Is something the matter?" she called out to him as he stormed over.

"Damn right," he growled, "Blackguards want me to pay a tariff for comin' into their port! What folly is that?"

"Ylisseans would never do that, it's illegal..." Olivia's words mimicked her husband's thoughts.

"Do you know who these men are?" Chrom whipped around.

"Why would I?" the captain shrugged.

No sooner had he finished speaking than did a small armed party appear at the end of the galleon's gangplank. "Sir, my superiors have deemed it necessary that we conduct a search of your ship for potential stowaways."

"And what if I refuse?" barked the captain.

"That's not an option," came the cold reply. In an instant, four men appeared along the port side of the ship and cast surprised and vicious glares at the exalt and his wife. "W-What the-? Hey, rally up, it's them! Exalt Chrom and his wife!"

The man beside him sputtered, "But I thought they were captured!"

"Musta gotten away, slippery bastards," growled another.

Unamused by this display, Chrom took his time unsheathing Falchion, letting it shimmer in the sunlight. When he was finished brandishing his might, he held the sword in a prepared stance and growled, "Step aside."

"Make us, blue blood," shouted one of the boarding party. Obliging him, the exalt sped forward and ran the blade cleanly through his foe's stomach before the ruffian had time to react. Two of the other mercenaries observed the attack with great indignation and swung their blades at the exalt, who lithely dodged one and guarded quickly against the other. Imposing his force, Chrom batted away the sword of the mercenary before him and opened the man's chest, whirling around in time to kick back the advancing second aggressor.

Though, the exalt had forgotten about the fourth man, who hefted an axe over his head and prepared to swing it down on Chrom's head. He was interrupted after severing only a few sapphire hairs, however, as he felt a searing pain consume his chest and drop him to his knees. Olivia pulled her sword out of his gut with a grimace and watched her husband shatter the last opponent's guard, knocking him onto the deck with a gash in his forehead.

"Sound the alarm!" came an indistinct voice from within the camp surrounding the port. In less than a minute, a loud brass bell rang out from the stone tower in the center of the port, the entire camp stirred like a besieged anthill.

"Olivia," Chrom looked at her carefully, "We need to get out of here."

"Right behind you," she nodded in assent.

Her husband frowned at her bloodied sword, "Are you sure..."

"Chrom, you know I've had to fight before," she replied.

He nodded, "Right. Of course. Let's hurry."

Olivia complied, following her husband as he sprinted over the gangplank and from behind the nearest building to escape observation. Chrom knew nothing of the enemy's number, only that he and his wife were currently surrounded, and that he would have to find a way out. Despite his attempts at concealment, the exalt heard footsteps.

* * *

"Lady Lucina!" a harried baritone called out.

"What is it, Frederick?" she had her rapier drawn.

"Some kind of consternation has overtaken the camp! If we're going to strike, now may be our most advantageous opportunity," the knight captain answered.

Lucina nodded, mostly to herself, and stepped out of her command tent to view the "consternation." It was as Frederick described: the camp seemed to be in an uproar, men scurrying up and down the streets, shouting for one another while a massive brass bell echoed in a hollow fashion not far from her position. "Right then," Lucina surmised, "gather up the others, Frederick, and tell them to attack."

"Milady," he saluted, rearing his horse and galloping away.

When the other Legacy Shepherds caught up, Lucina was already at the camp's gate. At her command, Nowi and Lissa took aim at the gate with their own brands of fire and blew it open with a thunderous explosion. The remainder of the Shepherds poured in after the burst, which sent a few mercenaries flying. "Stahl, Sully, Kjelle, Aunt Lissa, Uncle Donny, Nowi, Sumia, Cordelia, Maribelle, Gaius, Severa, and Brady, search the camp, find out what's caused this, and keep the enemy off our backs," Lucina commanded, watching a few of her comrades do away with some of the initial resistance from the camp, "Owain, Cynthia, Laurent, Nah, Kellam, and Frederick, all of you come with me, we're going to storm that tower."

The group acknowledged their roles and split according to their orders. "Nah, start bombarding the walls of the tower," Lucina demanded, "but be careful, don't topple it. Cynthia, you hop up there and help her."

"I'll do my best," the manakete concurred, transforming and soaring up to the window, followed closely by the spunky pegasus knight. The rest of the Shepherds flooded the tower, skewering the guards at its base and swatting the token resistance scattered about the stairs. At the tower's apex, all sweating and breathing heavily, they found a man sporting an absurdly broad blade and pauldrons embossed with ludicrous gold designs.

"Let me guess," Lucina pointed her rapier, "You lead these men?"

The man swallowed hard, sweat showing on his brow. His hands twitched as he answered, "Y-Yes."

"Right then," the princess flexed her legs, ready to spring forth, "I am Princess Lucina of Ylisse. I judge you guilty of crimes against my countrymen, the punishment for which is your eternal silence."

The man first grimaced, then scowled intensely before biting his thumb, spilling blood onto a page before him, "Master Datura... help us." As an unsettling purplish smog bubbled off the paper and into the man's throat, Lucina's party recoiled.

Several stories below, the other Legacy Shepherds were making quick work of the camp. The old veterans, in particular, dashed the inexperienced mercenaries with ease making use of their quick and skilled lance- and swordsmanship. Severa and Brady, too, of course, were not shy about making an impact on their opponents, some of whom Brady managed to scatter directly into one of Lissa's lightning bolts with nothing more than a particularly furious glare.

All the Legacy Shepherds were stunned, however, when Lissa uttered a syllable that made all their ears perk up: "Chrom?!"

It was true, at least, as far as could be observed by any of the Legacy Shepherds: knocking bodies away in a tremendous pile was the sapphire visage of the Ylissean exalt, and not far behind him, Olivia swung her sword a few turns, throwing foes off their back. Chrom recognized his sister's voice at once: "Lissa?"

Sully smirked, riding by to give her husband a pat on the back and encourage him to take note. He stared at the two, bewildered for a second, then nodded to Sully with comprehension. "All right, Legacy Shepherds," the viridian knight announced confidently, "Let's give these two a moment." At that order, the Legacy Shepherds formed up around their old captain and savagely beat back the mercenaries, who could never begin to mount a counterattack against the sheer speed and force of their opposition. Sully and Stahl, in particular, danced gallantly atop their horses, sending swaths of the enemy flying back in wide arcs with each swing of their blades.

"Lissa," Chrom sighed more softly, "I... I can't believe it's you."

Lissa was less conciliatory of her emotions, and cried outright at the sight of her big brother, "Chrom...!" She enveloped him in a tight embrace after just a moment.

"Good to see you too," he chuckled.

She lifted her head and wiped her eyes, "I'm really glad you're safe, Chrom."

"And I you, Lissa," he agreed, patting her shoulder, "Now, not to be too hasty, but... please, tell me you know where Lucina is."

Lissa nodded and turned to point at the tower, "Up there, looking for the base's commander."

"Right," Chrom accepted. He made no noise, but his lips spelled out the words "That's my girl." "Olivia, do you...?" he murmured.

"I'll stay here," she sighed, "Go ahead, bring our daughter back." The exalt smiled confidently and sprinted for the stairs.

Lucina and her company continued to watch the figure in a mix of horror and curiosity. The features seemed to have gone blank, save for a pale, pinkish color about the eyes. The nervous-looking man with the gaudy armor had been replaced by... something else. Something that stared at them with a straight scowl, neither moving nor blinking. Finally, the princess worked up her courage and approached the figure, thrusting forth her rapier, "D-Die!"

The weapon penetrated the figure's abdomen, but it made no noise, nor did it flinch, only lingered and began to stare at the steel imbedded in its stomach. The pinkish eyes gleamed into Lucina's for a moment, not with inquiry, more with a simple, chilling indifference. An icy screeching noise sublimed from within the figure's mouth and, within a moment, the figure dissolved, emitting plumes of the same foul, purplish smog, but leaving behind clumps of viscera that spilled sickeningly to the floor. Lucina drew back, grimacing at the bizarre display. Giving voice to the thoughts of her entire company, she muttered, "What in all the hells...?"

She was distracted, however, by a heavy series of footfalls that smashed into the room, "Lucina?!"

The princess turned to face her father, his sword pointed into the cramped office, glittering in the remaining daylight that had not been overshadowed by the flapping forms of the manakete and pegasus who sounded off outside. Breathlessly, the young lady took a series of trepidatious steps forward, outstretching her hand so as to plant it upon the chest of what appeared to be her father. When the gloved hand made contact, confirming that he was corporeal, Lucina collapsed into her father's arms, sobbing loudly and indelicately.

"Easy, Lucina," he murmured in a honeyed voice, clutching his little girl in his broad shoulders, "Shh. It's all right, I'm here."

"Father!" she cried behind beet-red cheeks, "They're dead...! They died because of me...!"

Chrom's eyebrows shifted, "What are you talking about, Lucina? Who's dead?"

The princess sobbed loudly again in reply, almost retching as she sniffled. She spilled a bundle of incoherent phrases into her father's ears: "I couldn't... and the Feroxi... caught us... and Gre-r an' Ri-n, an' all thos' puh-huh-huh..."

The exalt remained dumbfounded, clutching his daughter all the more tightly. "All right, Lucina," he soothed, stroking her hair, "It's over now. I'm here, and your mother's here... Just try to calm down."

Lucina's eyes were red, too, but in her hot embarrassment, she allowed herself to be guided down the long staircase back to the base of the tower.

* * *

The streets of Valm Harbor were wet, although that wasn't much of an insightful observation. Normally, the area would be overcrowded with swarthy sun-bronzed sailors comparing catches and relating areas of success or failure, as well as indulging in the occasional tall tale about massive storms and forty-foot fish, none of which ever rang true, but all of which seemed to amuse them, regardless. Today, though, the sky was steel-gray, and most people hid in their homes, disgruntled by the early dark and mild chill in the wind. An unusual time.

The contract here had made the relative silence and passivity of this morrow welcome to the amethyst-haired young man who now traipsed slowly up the slate streets. Fewer witnesses, and no one to pester him about being a new face in town; he could breathe easy and wait a while to depart for his next contract. Except, of course, he wasn't sure there would be a next contract. Not for lack of demand; the Doctor had been correct when he counseled: "As long as there's at least two people on the planet, someone's going to want someone dead." No, the amethyst-maned young man was now beginning to believe he was tired of the business. Killing for others, soaking his hands in blood for someone else's benefit, to keep some politician or other's gloves glowing white... He sickened himself thinking about it on occasion. The young man had a mind for something a bit greater. He had designs for a different line of work. He had aspirations that extended beyond this continent. He had... a tremendous desire for something to drink.

That, the young man noticed, feeling his tongue and the insides of his cheeks dry, and so, without delay, he found a sign advertising a tavern and let himself in. He dropped himself into a stool and pounded softly on the bar to command its owner's attention. The barkeep responded quickly, "What is it you want, child?"

"Child?" the young man growled, "I want a drink, you judgmental arse."

"You speak like a child," observed the wizened man, "you've lustrous hair and a soft face like a child, and you're short like a child."

"You want my money or not?" the man grumbled.

The bartender sighed and filled a mug with gold that came to a foamy head and set it in front of the young man. "Boy like you shouldn't be in a place like this..." he muttered in pouring the drink.

"Got outwitted by the kid, didn't'cha?" a voice cackled from the other end of the bar, "Hor'aze, you dupe. You're all talk, and as soon as someone pushes back, you yield like a leaf. I should know." The amethyst-haired man looked down the bar to find a man with leaf-green hair thumbing at himself with a smirk.

"You're right, I should have thrown you out, too," Hor'aze grimaced. Other bar patrons started giving the young men glares of irritation.

"Don' mind these ol' pricks, kid," chuckled the green-haired patron, whose eyes were becoming sparkly like polished marbles thanks to a fresh coat of alcohol, "Wha's yer name?"

"Nihilus," the amethyst-haired man answered, bowing.

"Ooh," it seemed to amuse his acquaintance, "I like tha'. Sounds all fancy."

"Thanks," Nihilus shrugged.

"Y'wanna know mine?" the other patron continued.

"Sure," Nihilus tried desperately to break eye contact.

"It's Cyrus," he beamed, "An' I'm the best damn swordsman this continent, nay, the world's ever known!"

"Would you shut up?!" demanded a patron who had, until then, been sitting motionless with his head down on the bar.

"Make me," Cyrus leapt off his stool and yanked the hungover patron out of his. Without waiting for a formal acceptance of his challenge, the inebriated swordsman jabbed his detractor square in the face, breaking his nose and drawing blood.

"Ow!" the man crumpled to the ground, "Noisy little prick..."

"What was that?" Cyrus kicked him in the ribs.

"That's enough!" the bartender shouted, scowling sternly at the leaf-green-haired man, "I've give you plenty of chances, Cyrus, so now get out of my tavern, and don't ever come back."

"Just like that?" sneered the youth, "Nuh-uh. You can't do this ta me. I been comin' here forever."

"And you've never done anything that stupid before, so I cut you some slack," Hor'aze answered, "but now you hurt someone, and it's going to be on my head, so you're done here."

A wild flame sparked up in the young man's booze-bathed eyes, and he smirked, "I ain't leavin'."

"You certainly are," disputed the bartender.

"Make me," he grinned.

After the words had passed his lips, a man moved away from the shadow of the tavern's door, evidently a guard of some description, and took Cyrus by the arm. Cyrus reversed the grab, however, skipping around the assailant's back and tugging, pulling the enemy to the ground, planting a foot in the back of his head for good measure. Another patron stormed up, aiming a punch at the leaf-green head, but Cyrus ducked it swiftly, jabbing this enemy rapidly in the stomach a few times. Said patron consequently forfeited his dinner upon the floor and fell over. The disturbance was such that more and more of the tavern's patrons were becoming agitated, and the few ladies in the establishment shrieked and skittered toward the stairs that led to the vacant rooms. Two more men, guts distended by their liquor dependence, attempted to overwhelm the young swordsman with their weight, but they, too, were easily avoided: Cyrus let one simply fall and smash his face against the floor, then amused himself by throwing an uppercut into the jaw of the second before skipping back and watching him collapse like a sack of bricks.

Nihilus sipped once more from his drink, pleading to avoid involvement in this affair, but now some of the patrons had their gaze fixed on him, and he stole a glance into the leaf-green-haired man's eyes and at once felt the vision creep in. The man he saw was older, not to say grizzled: he looked like one of those men who was still admonished for acting like a child, with profound amusement in his eyes and an all-too-real grin plastered on his straining face. Gales whipped and crashed behind this figure, lightning struck, winds shifted, tides rose and fell, deluges dumped buckets behind him, but he never once seemed buffeted by the elements. He only stood, offering that same grin, and a shimmering sword on his hip.

The amethyst-haired man returned to reality with a suggestion of import from this vision. Like it or not, this was his job now. The young man threw back the last of his drink and stood, "All right. That will be quite enough of this display."

Cyrus cocked a wild eyebrow, "You're turnin' on me, short stuff? Aw, an' here I figured we had somethin' special."

"Just be quiet," Nihilus rolled back his sleeves, "it'll be faster that way."

"Cor, cheeky bugger," cracked the drunk. He wasted no time in flying at Nihilus, flinging wildly quick stabs with his fists that sliced the air at each swipe. Only through his talent was Nihilus able to find the time necessary to escape each blow. He dodged them only barely, however, and he could feel the knuckles in their diverging trajectory brush against his hair and displace the air near his cheeks. The flurry ended eventually, however, and the wind fell out of Cyrus's sails, leaving him open for a response as he swallowed mouthfuls of air. The amethyst-haired man aimed a squared punch at his foe's windpipe: a technique for quick subdual that would end the fight promptly. But something very strange happened: the man with the leaf-green hair leaned out of the way of the attack.

Nihilus caught a low jab into his stomach, dazing him quickly, though not as much as the revelation he had just been dealt. Crumpling a bit and stumbling into a nearby table, Nihilus decided to test the theory again, picking up a mug and flinging it at his enemy.

The swordsman dodged it with a chuckle, "Tsk, tsk. That's just petty." He came at the amethyst-haired man again, slamming his face into the table, but Nihilus still maintained the capacity to react, bucking his hips in his subdued position, flinging his oppressor back in surprise. He spun around and hooked his leg to kick his opponent's shin, earning him a stunned yelp. The drunk stumbled back a few steps, then growled and wound up for a forceful punch that Nihilus only barely intercepted, not without hearing his fingers crack as he held it back. The amethyst-haired man countered with his free hand, but it was seized in kind by Cyrus. The two glared furiously into each other's eyes as they affirmed their grips and, after an unspoken agreement, they each tilted their heads back and slammed them into the other's with unrepentant force.

Then everything went dark.

* * *

It smelled filthy. That was the first thing he took note of as his senses slowly drifted back. The surface was hard, wet, and mildewy, making for a most unpleasant affront to his awakening nostrils. Within a few seconds, one eye split open, followed by the other, but then they were immediately shut in response to the brightness of daylight and an intense, throbbing pain that swelled in his forehead. It smelled even worse than the pain, though, so Nihilus picked himself up, first onto all fours and, with some effort, back on two feet. His clothes were soaked thoroughly, blood stained and caked on his hands and from his nose down the left side of his cheek. His hair, too, was a mess, but that did nothing to compare to the fierce, stark bruise that had formed on his forehead, although the man couldn't see it himself. He only felt the coursing tightness that pained him like a steak knife being jammed into his brain. When he had finished concerning himself with his pain, Nihilus looked back down to his resting place to find his opponent collapsed in the same spot, sporting very similar injuries. He had his eyes open, but was not moving. "Great performance you put on there, you imbecile," Nihilus spit, a little excess saliva flying off his slackened jaw.

Cyrus pinched his eyes shut and massaged his temples, "Not so loud, you... ass."

"What's your problem, anyway?" the amethyst-haired man continued, "Do you get off on starting fights?"

"You could've stayed out of it," the fallen figure replied, "Anyway, what business is it of yours? Just go back to your nice, warm house, you smug shit."

"I don't have a house," Nihilus confessed in a moment of sudden sobriety.

Cyrus managed to sit up as far as to support himself on one knee, "Well... congrats. Guess you and me do have something in common, after all." Nihilus stared back, supposing that he was inspecting his foe's massive forehead welt. "I figured that meant we were done," the leaf-green-haired man growled, "What are you waiting for?"

"Did you live on the streets, too?" panted the amethyst-haired man.

Cyrus rolled his eyes, "What? Yeah. Yeah, is that what you want, a confession? Yeah, I'm a street rat who picks fights in bars because I'm bored. You caught me."

"People... they always ignored you, didn't they?" Nihilus probed.

The swordsman began to stand, "What the hell are you getting at?"

The amethyst-haired man nodded comprehensively, "You feel angry, don't you? Even now. Nobody ever stopped to help you. Why didn't they stop? Why didn't they care?"

Cyrus gritted his teeth and seized his tormentor's lapels, "What kinda stupid mind game are you playing, you bastard?"

"I'm not playing," Nihilus answered measuredly, "I'm... impressed. And for once, I feel like... Like I'm speaking to someone who understands."

The leaf-green-haired man released his grip, "Little fancy kid like you? Growing up on the streets. No way, I don't buy it."

"My parents were killed in Walhart's purge almost two decades ago. I fought, I stole, I ate dead rats when I had to," Nihilus glared into the other man's eyes, "You doubt my sincerity."

Momentarily paralyzed by this glare, Cyrus reconsidered and blurted, "Maybe not. No, no ordinary kid gets that look in his eyes. It's dark and sharp, cold and unfeeling, envious but arrogant... Yeah, that's the look of someone who's seen real hardship. Maybe you're as good as your word, kid."

"Then do you agree?" Nihilus demanded, "Do you feel... angry?"

Cyrus chuckled, then erupted into a laugh, "I don't feel much of anything, kid. Feeling is what gets you drugged and cut open for organ harvesting in these parts."

"So you never desired... to strike back?" the amethyst-haired man contributed.

Cyrus's face changed again, "What're you saying, kid? Are you proposing we gut a few of those dandies in kind?"

"Sort of," Nihilus replied, unsure himself, "But... on a grander scale. What if... what if we could fix this? What if we could make people understand our suffering. They would be compassionate then, if we made them suffer like we did."

"How d'ya figure we'll do that?" Cyrus cocked an eyebrow.

Nihilus looked to each side, then bowed his head, "I hope you don't think I'm insane for saying this, but I see things. And the things that I've seen... an army, knocking down capitals the world over, sitting at the top and making the dandies, the nobles pay the cost of our suffering in their blood... People like you make me think they're possible."

"You may just be crazy," the swordsman chuckled, smiling broadly. Nihilus pouted. "But," he interrupted, "In all my days, I ain't never seen a boy that could even go toe to toe with me, let alone whoop my ass like you did, so maybe you have something going for you. Maybe."

"You're okay with that kind of ambiguity?" Nihilus cocked an eyebrow.

"Everything in life is ambiguity, guy. No use trying to fight the wind," the swordsman chuckled.

"So... are you as good with a sword as you are in a fistfight?" the amethyst-haired man wondered.

"Didn't I tell you?" his companion grinned, "I'm the best. Nobody beats Cyrus in swordplay. Nobody."

"Then I'd like to have you... accompany me, Cyrus," Nihilus offered.

"Look, you're a nice kid and all, but I don't really swing that-"

"Not what I meant. I think you can help me achieve what I'm looking for. And if you do, in return, you get the heads of as many dandies as you can bear to take."

Cyrus stared at the amethyst-haired man for a minute before laughing out loud, hearing it echo across the streets, "You know what? To hell with it. You got some balls, kid. I like your style. Let's do it."

"Thank you," Nihilus bowed, "you won't regret your decision."

"I better not," he grinned, imitating the act of decapitating his new acquaintance, "Now, if you're looking for an army, I do happen to know some good ol' boys who'd love nothing more than a good scrap..."

* * *

The march back to Rosanne was going to be a long one, no matter what steps were taken. Not only had there been the matter of burying the dead, but Duke Virion and his son the marquess had insisted on recovering the weaponry and armor of these fallen comrades, on the claim that loss of so much public spending would tank the small nation's economy and create a riot among the Rosannien citizenry, a risk that could not be afforded. Thus, with these labors completed, the exhausted company led by Robin, as well as the remainder of Rosanne's army all slowly trudged back toward Rosanne Keep. The hearts of Robin and company sank even deeper, however, for the knowledge that they would need to continue on to Ylisse even after the end of this journey. Seeing a haggard look in his father's eyes that reflected just such a deflated sentiment, Steven decided to engage him a bit, in hopes of lightening the mood, "I have so much work to return to once we halt this invasion and set things right... but it will be good to get home."

"You make it sound easy," Robin smiled, then turned his head, "Wait... you're thinking about working after this?"

"Well, I'll still have a job, won't I?" his son shrugged with a mirrored smile.

The Grandmaster shook his head, "Nothing but business for you, hm? You may need to lighten up a bit, son. When I was your age, my interests were... were mainly... um..."

Steven turned his head, trying to find the source of his father's confusion. And find it he did: Anna was walking a bit faster than the rest of the group so that she could be a few paces ahead of her husband. The silver-haired man was filled with compunction upon realizing that his mother's hips were sashaying in a very hypnotic and deliberate fashion in front of her husband, the intent of which was confirmed by a smirk cast over her shoulder when Robin's voice failed him. "Are you doing okay, Anna?" Robin smiled weakly at her.

"Just fine, sweetheart," she chirped back, straightening her hair with confident flicks of the wrist.

"Wow," Steven observed with tangible irony, cocking an eyebrow at his father, "I'm surprised you got anything done."

"As was your mother," the Grandmaster nodded, straining himself to keep pace with his wife and hook an arm around her. She received this gesture well, leaning into him comfortably.

"Steve?" there came a murmur from behind him. The orator turned to find his baby sister approaching, offering a little wave.

"Morgan," he smiled pleasantly, "Oh, do come here. It feels like it's been ages since we last talked."

"As I recall, that was partly a deliberate measure on your end," the redheaded thief folded her arms.

Steven scratched the back of his head, "Indeed, I won't deny my transgressions. I found it difficult to reconcile my desire to uphold the law with your willingness to violate it."

"There you go again," she rolled her eyes, "I'm not a serial killer, I just take from those who have more than they need."

"And give it to yourself," Steven replied, "How very altruistic of you."

"I'm trying to have a nice conversation here," Morgan growled.

The silver-haired man bowed, "Of course, of course. I'm sorry, we'll speak of it no more. Now, did you have an inquiry in mind?"

"I wanted to talk about dad," she answered.

"A favorite subject of yours of late, I'm told," her brother responded.

"Steve," she intoned that she was not in a joking mood.

Steven apologized again, "What was it, then? What about father?"

"I'm a bit concerned for his sanity, especially based on this latest venture," the redhead supposed.

"And you're sure this has nothing to do with the conflict of career choice you experienced some years ago?" the silver-haired man observed.

Morgan blushed, "I- how did you know about that?"

"He writes to me often, dear," Steven reported with a grin of confidence, "That, and I may just be psychic."

"Right, because sympathy was always your forté," the redhead pushed back.

"No need for pointless barbs, my dear girl," her older brother shook his head, "I'm only asking that you be self-aware."

"Ditto, Wordsworth," she countered.

Steven chuckled to himself, "You know, it really is good to hear your voice again. So nice to speak to someone other than those pudding-brained vessels of stupidity with whom I usually interact."

"And I'll confess," Morgan rubbed her shoulder, "It's nice to hear you call me 'dear girl' in that funny way of yours again. I greatly prefer it to 'thieving scum.'"

"Is there something funny about the way I say 'dear girl?'" Steven cocked an eyebrow at his sister.

She embraced him, "Not the point, Steve. Just say 'I love you, little sister.'"

"Quite," the orator blushed, "Your big brother loves you, Morgan."

"Good," she grinned, "Now, will you put me up on your shoulders and carry me around?"

"I imagine you'd be a trifle heavy for that," Steven put a finger to his chin.

Morgan frowned, "Wrong answer, Steve."

"She's smiling again," Robin observed simply, replicating the gesture, "It's not something I saw often, outside of her being in the company of that fiancé of hers."

"Was she really that stand-offish?" Anna wondered.

The Grandmaster frowned, "I doubt there's much love for me left in her heart. I understand. It saddens me, but better she be safe than die fanatically loving me."

"I'm sure we can find a middle ground somewhere between those," his wife supposed.

"You look beautiful," the Grandmaster blurted.

The redheaded merchant blushed, "Um, okay? I'm a total mess and that was completely unprompted, but sure."

"I recall being told that I needed to give more random compliments," her husband pointed out, "And I quote: 'It's cute and romantic, and your wife deserves the best, doesn't she? Unless you don't care about being nice to me anymore...'"

"That's a gross misrepresentation of fact," Anna rebutted, "you make me sound completely manipulative!"

Robin blinked, "Are you implying that's untrue? You tell me every day about the people you manage to fool into buying-"

"Shh," she applied a finger to his lips, "I'll let you in on a secret, tactician-boy: this is a test."

"Am I passing?" he hoped.

"I'd give you a 'D,'" she frowned, "but I'm open to extra credit assignments."

He pulled the merchant in close and kissed her, cupping her cheek and stroking her hair. "I love you, Anna. I'm so thankful to have you back," the Grandmaster concluded as their lips parted.

"'B+,'" his wife scored behind red cheeks.

"What's an 'A?'" he inquired.

"First letter of the alphabet, looks like an upside-down 'V' with a line connecting the two segments-"

"Anna."

"That's my name, don't wear it out."

Tears lined the Grandmaster's eyes, though he fought to hold them back, "Gods dammit, I missed you."

"You have no idea," she embraced him, "Do you know how hard it was to be without you?"

"Well, I imagine a lot of jars were left unopened..."

"I hate you."

They kissed once more.


	24. Rat In the Kitchen

The amethyst-haired man walked with a slight hitch in his step. He walked more quickly than was his intention, occasionally striding ahead of his accompaniment by several paces, but then his lieutenant would clear her throat and remind him pf his position. He flushed a bit with embarrassment each time, but he remained unrepentant: he wanted this brigade to move, and to move quickly. If that meant a few of its members would eye him with a bit of frustration, then so be it. The time had come for action. He sighed; correspondences with some of his generals had woven an interesting narrative in the eastern hemisphere, and the recent events in the west were equally troubling. To wit, Datura and Vlasis had succeeded in turning the Feroxi against the Ylisseans, a positive development, but one that was not without consequence, and the Ylisseans had reclaimed Ylisstol and were now pushing outward in an effort to evict the remainder of Nihilus's initial invasion force. They would be upset when they realized what a grave miscalculation they had made.

All the same, Nihilus was quickly losing generals: Arc, Cyrus, and Argent, all were now dead, leaving the clairvoyant with only half of his original web of support. The meddlesome Grandmaster was nothing if not efficient in his work, although the people of Ylisse had proven slightly more resistant than Nihilus had perceived from his visions. Nonetheless, they continued to play into his hands, and so long as their relentless combat continued, he could control the situation. Their move would be toward Ylisstol, to alter the tide of momentum in this battle. Of course, Ylisstol had been the goal from the beginning, and if not for Arc's meddling, Nihilus likely would have already been sitting atop the exalt's throne, but matters had been complicated, only because personnel were proving themselves unreliable, something he amethyst-haired man had always feared. Now, however, he was with his most trusted comrade, and prepared to rejoin with the few of his generals who had succeeded in accomplishing the goals set forth by his plan. He supposed he would give credence to that old adage, "If you want something done right..."

He paused in his thinking, as Dahlia shot him a glance, shifting her brow slightly. The Rose Blade stared at the open horizon, comprised mostly of patches of snow and onyx-black soil that was always cold and either slick with ice or just sopping wet. From over that horizon, however, emerged a small collection of young men and women sporting furs and toting swords and axes. They looked with suspicion at Nihilus and his men, and the invading group returned the sentiment. When they came within fifty feet of one another, Dahlia called out, "That's far enough. Identify yourselves, as well as your intentions."

"That's a laugh," scoffed one of the men, his face not resembling anything that would suggest laughter, "We were about to ask you the same thing."

"You're on Feroxi land, so what's the deal?" demanded a blonde woman beside him.

Dahlia prepared to repeat her demand, but Nihilus dropped a hand on her shoulder, "Easy, Dahlia. There's no harm in answering their request. It's common courtesy."

The Rose Blade folded her arms, then grunted, "You address the forces of Lord Nihilus, the Lost Son of Plegia, the Binder of Great Chains, and Seer of Truth."

The Feroxi chuckled between themselves, "Right... well, listen, Nihilus, West Ferox is in a bad way right now. As it stands, we can't afford to have strange outsiders prowling about on our land. Why don't you turn around and spare both of us some agony?"

Nihilus cupped his chin, "A 'bad way,' you say? Could you elaborate?"

"Word didn't reach you?" one of the women shrugged, "You must live under a rock. Regna Ferox is in a full-blown civil war: the East-Khan and his spineless sycophant murdered our noble Khan Regnant, Lon'qu and his wife. The khan's son has since gone missing, too, so, as it stands, we West Feroxi are just doing our best to keep those barbarians from breathing down our necks."

"Curious," Nihilus observed simply, "but... you say you're enemies of the East-Khan?"

Several of the Feroxi gripped their weapons, "You're damn right."

The clairvoyant bowed his head, "That is regrettable, as it puts us on opposite sides."

"What are you saying?" demanded one of the men.

"The East-Khan is in my employ. Now, get out of my way," Nihilus commanded, glaring auspiciously.

"Make us!" several Feroxi growled.

Nihilus rolled his eyes, "How very predictable. Very well. Dahlia, would you?"

The Rose Blade lifted her sword and skipped forward. Before he had time to draw his axe, a Feroxi watched his arm drop to the ground and screamed. In another second, another felt a cold spike thrust into his chest and the heat of warm blood spray onto his hands. Dahlia kicked off this man's torso and decapitated a woman nearby as she frantically unsheathed her blade. Finally, one Feroxi swung at her with an axe, but she split the right half of his stomach before its arc was halfway through. The Rose Blade prepared to impale another axe-wielder, just behind her, but instead she watched him be swept away in a wave of flame, crying out loudly. Nihilis lowered his hands, shutting the tome, and approached the few remaining Feroxi, who could now also see the army lined up behind their visitors, vast and outfitted in sinister garb, the color of red wine. These few remaining Feroxi recoiled as Nihilus drew near.

"You would be wise to scatter," he advised them simply. To accentuate his point, however, he grasped one of the men up front by the throat and held him out in front of his comrades, "And cease your attempts to cull the East-Khan, lest this should happen to all of you." In the course of his threat, his squeezed his arm tighter around the leathery flesh of the man's neck, prompting him to sputter, spraying saliva from his teeth, and kick and pull with his arms in an attempt to free himself. Slowly, however, the blood faded from his cheeks until his color matched the snow beneath him, and the frantic movements slowed to a halt. When this was done, Nihilus released his hold, and the Feroxi fell stiffly into the snow, his eyes fixedly rolled back halfway into their sockets. The remaining Feroxi varied in their reaction, from screams of terror to simple disbelieving stares, but they all turned and dashed away from the advancing army. "What a waste of precious time," Nihilus shook his head discontentedly. He signaled his troops, and the mercenary force resumed its advance behind their revered leader, strolling in a straight line and passing by the corpse flung into the snow, which grew colder by the second.

* * *

There they all stood. He couldn't even count them, they were so numerous. What a tremendous number, all so readily pledging their lives... how could this be possible? He would never again doubt his companion's powers of persuasion, that much was certain. How many had he said?

Guessing by his expression, the green-haired man answered, "Two thousand. Not exactly a ton, but no man with half a brain would turn up his nose." Nihilus agreed. "Just keep in mind," appended the swordsman, "it's not you they're loyal to. Not yet, anyway. They want money, and they think you can provide it, that's why they're following you. Screw that up, and you'll lose them all as fast as you can say 'Hot damn!'"

"I think I can provide them with just recompense," Nihilus replied.

"That'd be good," Cyrus acknowledged, playing with his hair, "What's the plan, exactly? Who's our quarry?"

"Quarry?" Nihilus stumbled on the term, "Well... I guess you could say... the man we're after lives in Lieben."

"Lieben?" the swordsman cocked an eyebrow, "Is that where we're headed? Ha, you shoulda said so, at least an eighth of these men must've come from there."

"Then they'll be happy to be home so soon," the purple-haired man nodded.

"Just be careful," Cyrus cautioned, "Mercenaries aren't gonna take to kindly to you if you're gonna try and make them burn their own houses."

Nihilus shook his head, "Not at all. I don't have any intention of harming anyone in Lieben."

"I thought you said our mark was..."

"He is, but he's not marked for death. He's marked as a person of interest."

Cyrus's face screwed up, "You got a funny understanding of what mercenaries are for, Nihilus."

The young man shrugged his shoulders, "It's just another step in the plan. You'll understand when you start to see all the pieces coming together."

"Whatever you say," the swordsman supposed, glancing back at the mercenaries, who were all straightening their clothes and making anxious faces.

* * *

Argent was a special individual, and yet he wasn't. At forty-three years old, he had served the Liebenese military for almost his entire adult life, and he had supported them fervently even as a wide-eyed child, though, looking at him, it was hard to imagine there was ever a time when his eyes weren't tightened by age. He had signed up for service years before Walhart's attempted dominance of the continent, and had been chomping at the bit to deploy when the time came, though it never had. He was a tall, imposing, broad-shouldered man who commanded respect with his sharp face and coarse voice, and yet, his men didn't fear him, they loved him. He was the epitome of the ideal Liebenese general, making him exceptionally commonplace, and therefore exceptionally influential.

When the general agreed to meet with this young man who was said to have come from nowhere, he wasn't sure what to expect, but whatever he was expecting, it wasn't what he received. Here was a soft-faced lad, looking some twenty-five years his junior, accompanied by a swordsman who seemed constantly inebriated, although the general never saw him drink, and by two thousand mercenaries. Why had they agreed to follow this... child?

"General," the boy folded his arms on the table, staring into Argent's eyes diligently, "let me be frank: I'm interested in talking a bit of politics with you."

"You've come to the wrong place," Argent grunted.

"I know, I know," Nihilus sighed with a reassuring air, "Politicians can be so trite, can't they? But, you know, it doesn't have to be that way."

"Talk sense, boy," the general demanded.

Nihilus's eye twitched involuntarily, "Ahem. What I mean to say, good general, is that I have a mind to change how our world works. And I think you could be a shining example for the rest of the world, if you'd be willing to be our trial case."

"What makes you think I have any interest in furthering the aims of a child I've never met before?" Argent scoffed and shook his head.

"I know it may be difficult to believe me now," Nihilus nodded, "but do bear with me, I think you'll find yourself adequately rewarded. What if I told you I could give you reign over your country?"

"I am a general, not a king," Argent sighed, "my people do not deserve to be beneath anyone's boot, much less my own."

The purple-haired man smiled as he cornered him, "Shouldn't be under anyone's boot, you say? Isn't that treasonous talk?"

Argent glared at him, "If you're going to try to arrest me..."

"Not at all, general. I merely propose this: if you don't like your country's leadership, why not change it? If you held Lieben's crown, you could do away with the hierarchical ails that plague you so."

The general took a long pause and folded his arms, "What did you have in mind?"

Nihilus grinned, "Lieben has always been a nation known for its strict adherence to the justification of force, no? So what stronger showing could there be than to bring two thousand men to bear down on the palace?"

"Madness," Argent shook his head, "to bring Liebenese against their king would be treason, and Liebenese would die before turning traitor."

"Indeed," Nihilus bowed, "which is why it's good that the men who will be following you are not Liebenese citizens or servicemen, but rather dutiful admirers of your incomparable strength and leadership who would give their lives for you."

Argent paused again and breathed deeply, "I see your point. Remember, however, that this is my kingdom, and any attempt to usurp me will be met with deadly consequences."

"Perish the thought, general."

* * *

Becoming reacquainted with each of his old friends made for one of the longest afternoons of Chrom's life, not that he would complain, though: it was a tremendous relief from the aging sovereign's mind to see so many of his old allies safe and sound reporting tales of plans to save his endangered Halidom and evict the mercenaries who had abducted him. Of course, this also meant that he learned of the more unfortunate news, as well. The slayings of a few of his former comrades cast an undeniable shadow on the face of the exalt, and none moreso than Ricken's, but the living faces of his sister and daughter somewhat reduced the pain of those revelations, although it would never completely subside. After fond reminiscence ended, there remained the business of a war incomplete. As much as it pained him to return to the question, staring down at the pale, muted smile of his daughter beneath the sapphire glow of her ruffled hair, he began, "Lucina... have you seen your brother?"

Her mouth dropped into a frown immediately, "No... I had hoped he might he with you and mother. He may still be in Regna Ferox, in which case he may also be in distress."

"That's right," Chrom recalled the brief report Stahl and Sully had delivered, assuming their knightly air as if Chrom hadn't been gone a moment, "You say the Feroxi were cornering you as well?"

"Yes... though for the life of me I couldn't tell you why," the princess sighed, "Khan Lon'qu has always been a faithful ally, but now... Dozens of Ylissean villages may have been razed beneath a Feroxi banner in the time it took us to get out here. Fortunately, King Henry arrived to deliver us from complete ruination."

"King Henry?" Chrom started, "He's in Ylisse?"

"Indeed," Lucina nodded, "He's the reason there aren't many Ylissean soldiers with us: I turned the bulk of our forces over to him in order to beat back the Feroxi, else we would have been trapped like rats."

"I see..." the exalt replied with a neutral tone.

"I'm sorry," Lucina bowed, "I know you must be upset that I gave Ylissean lives over to a Plegian king, but I had no choice..."

"No," he put his hand on her shoulder, "I trust you, Lucina. You made an executive decision in an effort to save Ylissean lives while still pursuing your objective. It mustn't have been an easy choice, either, but you made it, and that shows dedication to your position and your people. As exalt and as your father, I'm very proud."

She blushed and buried her head in her bangs, "Th-Thank you, father."

"And my humble thanks to all of you for your service to the Halidom," Chrom declared aloud, nodding at the familiar faces around him, "My country would have assuredly been lost if not for all of you, and so you have my eternal gratitude. If, at this time, you'd prefer to quit my company and return to your lives, you can consider yourselves removed of any and all obligation to Ylisse..."

Gaius took a few steps, but was reigned in by a tug on his collar from Maribelle.

"...But if you'd be willing to follow me on one last assignment, I promise you all my undying loyalty and the most comfortable lives you could feasibly live in Ylisse," the lord concluded. Voices of general affirmation rose among the Legacy Shepherds, all of whom smiled at their old commander as he addressed them. "Well then, you're all true boon companions," he beamed, "Our objective is simple: we will return to Ylisstol, eventually rejoining with King Henry and the Ylissean army, and evict the malicious Feroxi and mercenary groups who have besieged our homeland."

More assent rang out from the Shepherds as they assembled their weapons and moved to saddle up their gear. Chrom silently released a relieved sigh upon seeing that none of the group had fled. His mind continued to work quickly, however, as there questions spun around his mind, considering every detail of their return. Most prominent among these questions, however, was also the simplest: why had the Feroxi turned? Chrom had his suspicions, all of which tied into his son the prince's diplomatic visit, but word had never returned from the East-Khan. That would also explain why the Feroxi had struck Ylisstol before pursuing its royal family. Suddenly, a switch flipped in the exalt's brain and his eyes narrowed. There was something else of great value to him in Regna Ferox. He hoped to Naga that the place hadn't become to violent. If anyone could be his saving grace, it would be Lon'qu and Panne, but would they be able to hold out? ... Whatever their course, Chrom was now surer than ever that the Shepherds needed to hurry. After a moment, another realization hit Chrom, as if the time spent in Ylisse was slowly returning lost memories to him, "Lucina... did your Aunt Lissa carry out my orders? The request I gave to Sully, did she...?"

"I found that sumbitch, all right," the short-haired knight strode over, "I brought him back, and he actually helped us take back Ylisstol after the first time it was attacked... O'course, that was mostly just stalling, since that big bastard Arc ending up taking it over anyway."

"Is that who's leading the mercenaries now?" Chrom interposed.

"Nah," Sully shook her head, "he's worm food now. Lucina helped us kick his hide, along with Anna and Leo. Ol' Faithful himself and his littlest pride and joy left for Valm weeks ago."

"Are Anna and Leo with you?" the exalt pressed.

"Nope, they followed The Tactician Magician after we retook the capitol," the redheaded cavalier answered.

"And lo, it is known by another present here that the oldest of the Grandmaster's clan also departed for the lands of the west," Owain contributed.

Chrom paused, "So... Robin, Anna, and all of their children are in Valm?"

"So it would seem," Lucina nodded.

"I think we'll leave their business to them, then," the sapphire-haired lord resolved, "For now, let's focus on what we have to do, and we'll pray that they come out all right."

Lucina nodded, "By your leave, father. I'm sure Robin and his family will do just fine."

* * *

"YOU SUNK THE _STARLING_?!" a voice scolded harshly, scattering a nearby flock of birds.

A distressed Robin held out his hands, feeling sweat on his face, " _We_ didn't sink it, it was ripped apart in a storm."

"Because of your terrible navigation skills!" his wife railed, "Honestly, you couldn't have just hired a real professional captain, you had to do it by yourself, because you're _so_ passionate about the sea... I swear, this is the last time I ever fund a vanity project of yours, I mean, do you have _any_ idea what that thing cost?! I coulda saved up four _years_ worth of inventory before I spent as much money as I did on that stinking boat! I have half a mind to throttle you right now, you...! URGH!"

Robin hung his head and sighed as he was berated for a few minutes more before Anna threw up her hands and drifted away, sighing. "She hasn't slowed down a moment, has she?" Leo posed, grabbing his father's attention.

"No, that she hasn't," Robin agreed.

"You know, she never stopped trying to reach you when you were separated," Leo noted, "Honestly, I was gonna stop in Ylisstol and wait for you to get back, see if any more of these mercenary creeps were hanging around, but she wouldn't hear it, she wanted to get to Valm ASAP."

"Really?" Robin's brow rose.

"You're surprised?" his son shot back.

"Not about Anna, I don't doubt her devotion for a second," the Grandmaster returned, "I didn't think you of all people would want to sit around in a palace while the action is going on elsewhere."

The assassin folded his arms, "No offense, but it looked like there'd be more going on in Ylisstol for a while than out here. Honestly, I figured you'd have the problem sorted by the time we got here."

"I wish you were right," Robin shrugged.

"You know, you coulda done all this more effectively if you'd'a just killed ol' Silver Shell at the outset," Leo mused.

His father scoffed, "Are we really doing this again? You know Argent was untouchable at the time. No one could've just snuck in there and taken him out, so it's a moot point."

" _I_ could have," Leo grumbled.

"Oh my gods," Robin shook his head, "You're really doing this. Listen, son: I don't care what ancient techniques your masters taught you, you'd have been skewered fifty yards from the gate if you tried to assassinate Argent. I'm not saying that to spite you, I mean that literally no one could have penetrated his defenses."

"Every fortress is impenetrable until it gets broken into," the assassin rebutted, "With a little careful scaling of the walls, and precise avoidance of attention from the guards..."

"You could get to the general's throne, which he almost never leaves, and then be surrounded by a dozen or more of his most elite units and reduced to ribbons in seconds," the tactician concluded.

"Almost never isn't never," Leo protested, "he'd have to leave eventually, and when he did..."

"You'd have no idea where he was going and you'd be dealing with a patrol and a few sentries in every hallway, the layout of which you're unfamiliar with," his father continued.

"Listen, old man," Leo growled, jabbing a finger at his father, "I know you think everything's impossible now that you can barely walk without spraining something, but for a guy in his prime, there was every opportunity to bring that hulking moron to heel!"

"No, you listen, little boy," Robin glared back, "I examined all of our options beforehand. If I could have made things as simple as sending an assassin, I would have, but no one's careful enough to avoid every hazard that palace could throw at them, especially when espionage was the inciting issue for this whole conflict, and so, worst-case scenario, such a maneuver might have actually made things worse. A proper, planned assault and removal of the target by means of force was the only way to proceed."

"Why do I bother talking to you? You're so used to everyone kissing your ass about how great your plans are, you're delusional!" the assassin shouted.

"Pardon me for having confidence in my deductions when I've been doing this for years, unlike certain children who are still working through the ranks of being a glorified foot soldier!" his father growled.

Steven watched the pair, snarling at one another and sighed. As an orator, it was always assumed that Steven was the stubborn one, but looking at those two, he couldn't fathom how he shared half their genetics. The silver-haired man had experienced this exercise in futility many times, and on each occasion it was with similar burning vigor. It was strangely comforting to hear the argument again. It reminded the young man of the days when he'd trudge back home in the snow, brushing clumps of it off his sleeves as he walked into the warmth of a fire, a pot of soup steaming, and the exasperated voice of his father trying to quell his overly ambitious youngest son. Of course, sometimes Leo's voice was replaced with that of others... though that didn't necessarily mean the response was any less exasperated, particularly in the case of a certain little redhead, but even then, the answers at that time had a different mode of exasperation, something that was ultimately comforting and paternal. Now it mostly seemed like pure frustration. Steven decided he'd have to ask his father in detail about it later, perhaps once they'd found a new ship.

Meanwhile, several paces away, a brunette in her baby-blue cloak sidled up to her mother, curly hair bouncing, and she tapped the tall redhead on the shoulder as she muttered to herself. Caught in her stupor, Anna's head jolted up before she craned her neck, "Huh? Oh, sorry, I was thinking... What's up, Sylvie?"

"I heard that little spat between you and dad," she introduced.

"Oh," Anna frowned, "I know it's not all his fault, but that damn ship cost me a fortune..."

"Are you feeling okay, mom?" the brunette suddenly demanded.

"Eh?" she cocked an eyebrow, "Yeah, I'm fine. Why, is there something on my face?"

"No, but you look..." Sylvia hesitated, examining her mother's curious eyes for a few seconds before making her decision, "You look really tired. Gaunt, even. Did you sleep on your way up here?"

"Sometimes," the redhead conceded when she thought about it, "when I could."

Sylvia's bottom lip pouted, "Mother, I thought you were supposed to be good at telling people what they want to hear."

"I was worried about your dad," the merchant shrugged simply.

"Well now I'm worried about you," the performer walked in a circle around her mother, examining her carefully.

Anna blushed, "Uh, Sylvie? Could you not stare at mommy like that? I feel like a horse at auction."

"Yes, yes, yes," the performer rapidly told herself, "I know just what you need."

She bit, "What's that, hon?"

"A bit..." she spun around, flourishing a gloved hand, "Of Mystic Sylvia's..." The girl skipped backward a step, throwing a hand skyward and launching a tiny red flame that popped in midair, "Fantastical..." Another flame went up and sparked emerald green, "Renewal..." One more spark flew up, this one indigo, "Extravaganza!"

Anna blinked the glittery dust out of her eyes and then applauded lightly, "Uh, A+ for presentation, hon, but we might need to work on that name."

"Either way," her daughter ignored her, "A little taste of my experimental magic will have you feeling right as rain in a jiffy! I got the idea for the technique from a traveling bard." Following the explanation, Sylvia stood back, raising a staff before her, and skipped a few steps forward, spinning the staff and whistling a jaunty little tune. She continued her cantering, spinning back around, for several seconds more, then faced her mother, flourished her cape, and aimed the staff, which illuminated for a moment and then fizzled. As the light dimmed, the performer crossed her legs and bowed, although there was no applause accompanying the gesture. "Thank you, thank you!" she expressed to no one in particular.

Anna looked on in amusement, but as she took a step forward to break her daughter's reverie, she became aware that her legs no longer felt sore or tired, and her eyes were open wider than before. In general, she felt a tremendous relief, and so she glanced curiously at her daughter, "Say... I think that actually worked."

"R-Really?" Sylvia picked up her head, "I mean... Er, of course it worked! You think the great Mystic Sylvia would perform a spell that didn't do anything?" The performer guffawed theatrically.

Anna chuckled and sighed, "Here I was worried that you'd be a little beaten up by being forced into the middle of all this... I can see not much fazes you, Sylvia."

"Hey, I'm sure you had plenty of worries when we were all separated," she answered, "Why should I compound upon that? Everyone's safe and together again, that's good enough, right?"

"Very right," the merchant put an arm around her daughter and pulled her close.

"I'd forgotten how... colorful your family was," Inigo smiled, choosing his words.

"They're a bunch of loons," his fiancée replied, "But I guess it's good that they're all alive. I hope they continue to live for a long time... very far away from me."

"You don't mean that," the Ylissean prince gripped her shoulder.

The thief sighed, "I don't know. I'm just looking forward to finally putting this thing to rest. We're only about an hour from Valm Harbor now, and then it's just a few days' trip by sea to get back to Port Ferox."

"Right," Inigo nodded, "the problem will be securing another ship to use, seeing as how our first voyage didn't go very well."

"If I know my brother," Morgan supposed, "I'd bet Steve's cooked something up for just such an occasion."

"So, we just need to get there..." Inigo breathed, "Ah, but, that reminds me... Morgan, don't you remember what we found in Valm Harbor?"

"It hasn't left my mind since we got out of there," she nodded, "I don't know what was going on there, but I'd like to stay away from the town as much as possible."

"Agreed," the prince nodded, "but what if... I mean, do you suppose whoever's there will just let us...?"

"I don't know, and I'm not eager to find out," Morgan concurred, "but it's our only way home. We can't waste time here."

"Most assuredly," the Ylissean lord accepted. Still, he felt an unshakable icy sensation on his neck as the group moved forward.

* * *

Water clung to every inch of his skin, like a sponge abandoned in a basin, he was simultaneously drained and oversaturated as he took a few steps outside of his cold prison. The first sensation he felt afterward was an excruciating, throbbing, stabbing rush of pain in his eye, and so, without alternative, he reached up to the affected area, grabbed the problem (an arrow, he remembered) and yanked it forcefully out from the flesh. The pain in that instant was even worse, and it took every fiber of his being and constitution to not collapse from shock as his vision bordered with white, but he finally dislodged the bothersome implement, snapped it with vicious contempt, and dropped it to the sand below.

As he stepped forth onto the cobblestone streets, deluges still poured out from his garments. He removed his boots and let their contents coat the ground before slipping them back on, then went through the process of removing several of his other large garments and shaking them dry before putting them back on. Once this was done, he strode quietly through the streets at what he normally would have considered an agonizing slow pace, though it felt natural to him at the moment. Catching wayward glances from a few passersby, he remembered his eye, feeling a viscous sensation as he tapped around where the ball had once been. Made acutely aware of how it might look at once, the man slipped into a tailor and glared at the shop owner. The man at the other end of the counter shriveled a bit in anxiety upon seeing him, but when the customer pointed to his eye noiselessly, the tailor sunk into the back room and reemerged with a black silk eyepatch in his open hand. He presented it hopefully to the prospective customer, who took it and placed it over his damaged eye, strapping it to his head. The cool material felt strangely comforting on the searing hot pain, and so the man exhaled as his muscles relaxed. He nodded vaguely and fished some waterlogged coins out of his pocket, dumping them on the counter and taking his leave.

The man stood in the center of the street, stretching a bit: it felt as though he'd been sleeping for quite some time, and even now, things still felt like a dream, as his vision never took on that certain appearance of reality. Inside, too, the man was troubled: his stomach ached, and he felt cold at all times, but he refused to allow these irritations to hinder him. Only one question mattered in the mind of the green-haired man as he reached down to his belt. He withdrew his sword, swung it a few times, and felt it slice the breeze. He whipped he tool a few more times to satisfy himself, and when he did so, he sheathed the weapon anew. So that remained. And, as his memories drifted back amid the current souplike quality of his thoughts, he was reminded that his master had been correct: they were no joke, not to be trifled with. That whole family, they could wreak untold chaos when together, and he had only fought half of them. But they had only fought half of him, in a way, he chuckled to himself. He would find them now, and whether it was one by one or all at once, he would flay each and every one of them for the disturbance they'd cause him. Starting with the silver-haired one. But where could he find them? Had Nihilus killed them already? He would start at Valm Harbor and uncover what he could.

* * *

The throne room was cold. Even more so than usual, because there were no flames alight in the room, as was typical. Instead, the small rectangular space was colored only by the meager, icy-blue light offered by the outdoors. No one would bother to enter the room at this point, so there was no need for the decorations afforded to and required by guests. The door would remain locked to all but those who possessed the key, and that included only three people. One of them would never need to use it, as he had no desire to leave, to see what the outside world had become. Atop his liar's chair, he sat, the snowy mop of his hair hanging sullenly over his face as his eyes traced the designs on the ornate palace floor. He resisted the urge to simply close his eyes: they struggled against him every moment, as, though he was fatigued during the day, sleep mocked him at night, and so the eyes had remained open for three days, never once shutting the doors of consciousness, so that now all things dreamlike and real seemed to exist on the same plane. That, of course, had only made him more paranoid, seeing visions of strange and menacing specters lurking on the peripheries of his vision. He felt convinced in this moment that this was assuredly what death felt like.

As if sensing his despair, the door clicked, and a few echoing clops from a pair of boots traipsed toward the center of the room. "Milord..." Stewart saluted feebly. The boy could see it, of course; his attendant had always served him faithfully, dutifully, and with an infectious passion he wished all the Feroxi shared, but now, in the cold sea that was slowly rising over his khanate, the sanguine vigor of his comrade had faded to match the sickly purple of his freezing face.

The boy looked up, not trying to conceal his misery, but still looking more like a toddler who'd lost his ice cream than a ruler who had now committed atrocities and war crimes on the level of the East-Khan. He waved his hand for his subject to continue.

"I... I can't," the man stammered, "Forgive me, milord... permission to speak freely?"

The khan nodded.

"What you've done, sir... I have supported the East-Khan with my life since the latter years of Flavia's reign, but what you've done... I'm not sure I can continue to follow you. The deaths of the West-Khan and his wife... these will not be forgiven easily. Too many are already dead, but now... Milord, scattered reports are coming in that the Ylisseans have bolstered their resolve and their number, and are rebutting our advance with all of Plegia in tow."

The khan simply lowered his head again.

"Why, Khan Vlasis?" his subordinate demanded, his fist tensing a little, "Why did you allow Lord Datura to proceed with this... folly? This madness?"

The khan shook his head and outstretched his arms, feigning an attempt to separate them as if they were bound by rope. Afterward, he pointed to his lips and then the ceiling.

"Word of the gods?" Stewart interpreted, "Please, I beg you, no more vagaries, milord! I must know the whole of it!"

"And so shall you have it," responded a crotchety voice. The silver-blue hair that poked through the door introduced Lord Datura, whose long robe dragged as he made his way to the throne, never moving his eyes from Stewart.

"You!" the guardsman growled, "You're the cause of all this! Every horrible mistake the good khan has made has been due to your counsel!"

"Hah!" the old man scoffed, "This boy's reign wouldn't be possible without me! Do you think it was his idea to grant amnesty to the pacifists and lower taxation on foods in poor regions during the winters? To stay the executions of criminals with living families? How do you think people chose this meek lily-of-the-valley to succeed the incomparable Flavia? Because of his charisma?! His work ethic?! Hah! It was me at the source of it all, and the boy knows it well!"

"Y-You...?" the attendant took a step back and looked to his khan for verification. The boy nodded slightly, his eyes burning as he looked back into those of his comrade, who swallowed, "B-But... milord... You are not beholden to this fiend! You have a choice! Perhaps your people will be disappointed, but surely the shame purported by his blackmail is far lesser than the odious disgrace of dooming your entire nation to collapse!"

Datura had a long, deep laugh as his eyes narrowed on the blond before him, "I'm afraid you still have it wrong. The boy _is_ beholden to me, as many have been, and as many more shall soon be..."

"What are you prattling abou-" the retort was cut short as a blade was driven into the man's chest. He gasped, feeling the warm blood trickle over his hands, then with the last sparks jolting through his nervous system, craned his neck to face his khan, the eyes warm and slightly wet.

"I grew so very tired of his questions," Datura sighed, distastefully flinging and wiping the blood from his hands as he withdrew the small blade, "Now... on to business."

The boy's teeth clenched hard, such that he expected them to shatter under the force, his arms gripping the armrests of his throne in a similar fashion, so hard that the wood seemed liable to crack. He stood and faced the chrome-haired sorcerer before him, brandishing a tome from beneath his cloak.

"Don't be so damn stupid," Datura rolled his eyes, pulling out a tome of his own.

Twin streaks of tears rolled down the East-Khan's eyes. He choked down his fears as he stared forward. He lifted his free hand, feeling the emanations from the page before him, which glowed brightly: a black purplish smoke enveloped Datura, but he simply chuckled. He responded by flinging a bolt of amethyst light that seemed to pierce the boy's heart. He collapsed to his knees, falling from the throne, but propped himself up. He growled and waved his hand forward to cast the spell again, gurgling, "No."

Datura flung another bolt that struck the East-Khan in a similar fashion.

He fell flatly on his face and felt his jaw bounce up into his mouth. He rose on one knee and aimed the spell again, "No."

Datura stabbed him with another bolt.

He writhed on the floor, clutching his chest. He outstretched his hand, his eyes tightening until he was blind, but he sent the spell regardless, "No."

Lord Datura scowled, slamming the boy with another bolt, then another in rapid succession, then another, and another, and one more, until the boy's vestments smoked, his body convulsed before dropping limply, and the light faded from his soft eyes. "Imbecile," Datura scoffed contemptuously, "forcing me to waste my magic..." After his frustration passed, the sorcerer swapped his tome out for another and raised his hands to the sky. An ominous smoke swirled around the bodies in the room, slowly lifting them from their broken positions and suspending their limbs before returning them upright and jolting flashes of light into their eyes. Stewart's mouth gaped, but before he could say a word, Datura had turned to a shamefaced Vlasis, who simply hung his head once more. "Of course, you see how futile and stupid that was."

The boy nodded, still feeling the burning in his stomach.

"Now, don't disobey again, or I may decide to cease my influence upon you," he snarled.

Vlasis nodded slowly, feeling his balled fists empty and spread out limply.


	25. Hopes and Dreams

The way Datura presented himself and his two most important subjects could be best compared to a mother dragging her sullen children out to the temple for service, smiling all the way. Dahlia was aware of his disgustingly superficial air and excessive cordiality long before the Twisted Sage spoke his first word, but Nihilus didn't seem too bothered by it. Rather, her commander seemed quite pleased with the old man and his triumph, the east-khan, whom he also presented, looking "chuffed as chips," as she imagined a companion of hers might have once said. His death remained lamentable, if only that Nihilus had one fewer protector now, but that only meant she had to be prepared twice as quickly. The cold air rushed over her shoulders and blew locks of her pink hair forward. She put her back directly to the wind.

"Well, Lord Datura, it seems you've done all that I asked of you, not a single doubt about it," Nihilus nodded, his voice quick and clerical.

"Naturally, milord," his subordinate replied, "It was a simple matter, really. Patience was all that was required."

"Indeed," the amethyst-haired man agreed, "I did well to trust in you and your nephew. You played your role convincingly too, lad."

Vlasis's eyes were pinned to the snow and dirt at his feet.

"I take your arrival as a good omen," Datura continued, wringing his hands in a way that made Dahlia want to slap them.

Nihilus shook his head, "I wish it were so. In truth, our situation has gotten ever the more dire." Their commander pulled a vial from his pocket and imbibed more of his medicinal black water, "Exalt Chrom has escaped my grasp. Arc, Cyrus, and, most recently, Argent have all fallen, as well. I've come to Ferox to ensure that the rest of our plan will play out as proscribed."

"Well, not to worry there, my lord," Datura smiled, "The Feroxi are entirely at our disposal, and are marching to eradicate the Ylissean capital as we speak. Another group has already dispatched with the exalt's daughter, as well as his sister, brother-in-law, and nephew; there is no hope for the Ylissean throne."

"Really?" Nihilus cocked an eyebrow, "And have you heard confirmation from that latter division."

"Well, no, sir," the sage admitted, "but the task was—"

"Incredibly difficult and significant in its purpose, therefore not to have its result assumed?" Nihilus glared, "Please, don't be so hasty, Lord Datura."

"Yes, my lord," he shrank a bit.

A faraway look glazed over Nihilus's eyes as his mouth moved back and forth but did not produce sounds for several seconds. He gazed down at Datura and Vlasis with a certain condescension, then added, "Just one other thing, Lord Datura."

"Anything, milord," he agreed.

"Are you quite sure you've control over all the Feroxi?"

"Oh, of course."

"That's interesting. Then why did I meet a group claiming to be rebels against the Khan Regnant who hailed from the free west?"

"Hm? Bah, scoundrels. A few dissenters, nothing more. They aggrandize themselves to make their struggle seem less fruitless."

"They spoke of civil war."

"Lies and buffoonery; the Feroxi are entirely beneath my heel."

"Lord Datura, are Khan Lon'qu and his wife dead?"

"Yes. That was simply a matter of necessity. The Feroxi killed him in a show of spite for their old ways and love for their Khan Regnant."

Nihilus's eyes turned into fine needle points, "Lord Datura, I will ask you but once: who killed Khan Lon'qu?"

"Milord, I haven't the faintest idea—"

"I shan't repeat myself."

"It was the Feroxi, as I said."

"And you're certain of that?"

"Entirely."

Nihilus sighed loudly and shook his head, "I suppose I never will learn my lesson. Trust is ill placed in the hands of anyone outside myself. Did you really think I wouldn't notice the corpses piled up as I arrived, Datura?"

He hesitated, "I don't understand—"

"Indeed, you do not," the amethyst-haired man concurred, "When I give you the explicit order to 'manipulate the Feroxi without instigating violence,' what ambiguity do you see in that statement?"

"Have I violated milord's command?" Datura's eyes swelled to pleading.

"Don't be so gods-damn pretentious, you snake!" Nihilus shouted, "How stupid are you?! Rather than crush the Ylisseans by turning their ally completely against them, as I ordered, you broke them into factions! You've spurred their resolve for action! The western Feroxi will do anything to oppose you now! And suppose Khan Lon'qu's son returns, what then?"

"I fail to—"

"Clearly," Nihilus folded his arms, "I have a mind to kill you this instant, but I can't abide my options being further limited, so here's what I'm going to do: I'm going to make my way to Ylisstol, and you're going to remain here. You will continue to utilize the Feroxi forces to do my bidding along with Khan Vlasis until such time as my goal has been achieved, and then, based on your performance, I may lessen your punishment. If you fail me again, however, and violate the exact and deliberate parameters established by this order, I will end you so quickly and horribly, your _ancestors_ will collapse in agony. Am I completely, unflinchingly, unmistakably understood?"

The Twisted Sage swallowed, "Y-Yes, milord."

"Good," the clairvoyant turned and walked away. Dahlia watched the move, scowled contemptuously at Datura, frowned pityingly at Vlasis, and then followed her lord.

Preparing for the miles yet to come on their journey to Ylisstol, Dahlia and Nihilus lifted themselves onto horses, drew shawls over their heads as the snow picked up, and spurred their steeds, as well as their men, forward once more.

Tharja emerged from the hovel in time to see the source of the cacophony that had roused her. She detested the cold unimaginably, but she decided peeking her head out of the small dirt installation was necessary to continue her vigil for the tactician, especially given what she had learned: she was convinced he would return any moment. The view she received instead, however, chilled even her black heart in the midst of the snow and ice: an amethyst-haired figure rode atop a horse, accompanied by a rose-haired woman at his side and several thousand men—an innumerable amount with such a brief glimpse—kicked the snow up behind them. Tharja predicted that this was not a sign of good fortune. She ducked back into her hole, praying the troupe would not notice her, and her hope was validated. When she heard the thunder of footsteps subside, she poked her head out again and saw a sea of footprints flattening the snow. At that moment, she made her decision: she would follow those prints, for whatever lay at the end of them was surely of great significance, and could lead to her lost tactician.

In Ylisstol, ballistae were being readied in preparation for the assault of King Henry.

* * *

"I don't think even I or your mother will ever understand how you manage such things, Steven," Robin admitted, looking at the ship's aft.

"I know a guy," the orator concluded simply.

"Apparently," his father concurred, "All we need now is someone to captain the vessel. Which could be me, if your mother would only—"

"Oh no," Anna shook her head, "I'm not making a losing investment without changing anything, that's sheer insanity. We're finding someone who can properly take control of this thing and bring us safely to shore or we're not taking it at all."

"I really think that's an unnecessary step," Robin sighed.

"And I really think I didn't ask," his wife answered.

Steven rubbed the back of his neck, "Well, there's no sense squabbling at this point, is there? We might as well just relax and wait for Morgan to sort this all out."

"I also feel like I should have come with her," the Grandmaster added.

Anna frowned at him, "Are you kidding? You've been on your feet for weeks with hardly any rest: you've got callouses on your callouses! You're going to sit down here on this pier with me and your son for an hour or two until your daughters, son, and son-in-law secure some professional assistance for us, got that?"

"I could do without being treated like a child," he griped.

"Just as soon as you stop acting like one," she returned.

Steven hoped his sister's expedition was going better than this.

The sunlight belied the fact that the streets of Valm Harbor's commercial and residential districts were eerily silent, such that Morgan, her fiancé, and her siblings could hear every footstep they made and believe that it had emanated from elsewhere in the way it reverberated off the walls. The soft rust-orange and dull gray of the many single-story buildings in the town seemed even more empty by virtue of their being illuminated by the sun, as no figures could be seen within the translucent, grimy windows. Noises from the sea still echoed into the town, and seagulls still flocked above it, but there were no human voices within. It was a town populated by shadows.

"Are those perceptive eyes of yours seeing something I'm missing, Leo?" his eldest sister asked, noticing him straining his his brow against the sunlight.

"I'm trying, but no," he huffed, dejected, "I keep looking, but nothing strikes me. I get the sense this could be a waste of time."

"That's impossible," Morgan decided, "There were plenty of people here when father and I came by not more than two weeks ago. Sylvie, Inigo, you were there, back me up."

"It's true," the Ylissean prince nodded, "It wasn't what I'd call a thriving metropolis, but it wasn't so... deserted, either." Sylvia expressed her agreement.

"Maybe they caught wind of the war and all scattered to other parts of the continent," Leo supposed, "I've seen it happen before."

"There's no way the entire town just disappeared," Morgan disputed, "I refuse to believe that."

"And what's your suggestion?" the assassin returned.

Morgan took a moment to consider it, cupping her chin, "Why don't we go to a tavern?"

"Do you fancy a drink?" Inigo's eyes widened, "I thought you didn't care much for the stuff, Morgan."

The redheaded thief rolled her eyes, "I mean we should look in the tavern for other people. It's likely at least a few people will be around there." With a shrug, the remainder of the group agreed and allowed themselves to be led through a few streets until they finally happened upon a sign for a tavern, accentuated by a pyramid of barrels labelled "rum" sitting outside the shop's window. They walked inside.

Quickly, their collective attention was drawn to a single man, sitting, wearing a long, coal-black, mud-stained coat as he slumped over the bar, protectively clutching a small glass. "Uh, pardon me..." Morgan took a few steps toward him. The figure made no response. The redhead drew closer and placed a hand on his shoulder, "Sir?" Still no answer. Finally, she shook the shoulder and shouted, "Hey!"

The man's eyes parted and his head slowly rose, "...Wha?"

"Sir," Morgan inquired, "do you know what's going on? Why is the town empty like this?"

"He's a drunk, Morgan," Leo folded his arms, "We'll be lucky if he knows what day it is."

The figure turned, "You... want to know what happened?"

The thief drew near, "Yes, please. What do you know?"

"What happened," the man coughed, "is that this place went to hell. A demon came through and stole the souls of everyone around."

"He's just spouting nonsense now," the auburn-haired assassin rolled his eyes, "Let's go, Morg."

"Leo!" Sylvia jabbed him with her elbow.

"Sounds like he's giving us a riddle," Inigo chuckled.

The redhead tried again, "Can you be a little clearer, sir?"

"I can tell you there's no one living in Valm Harbor right now," he said, "No sailors, no lawmen, not my wife... not even I."

The thief blinked a few times, "Maybe I'm just being dense, but I don't think I follow."

In answer to her statement, a groan sounded out from behind the bar. Morgan peered over to see a pair of pink eyes gleaming back out at her. She yelped as a man bearing a knife burst out from the doorframe leading to the kitchen and swiped at her. She kicked the man once she had created significant distance and stabbed him with her sword quickly. "What the hell was that about?" she demanded.

The figure was back to staring into his glass, "There's no one alive here. And if you are, that'll change soon enough."

Leo stepped forward and seized the man by the arm, leveling a knife at his throat, "Tell us something that means something, stop with all the stupid double-talk!"

"Are you going to kill me?" the figure sighed dryly, "That would be a relief."

"I thought you said you and everyone else here were dead," Morgan noted.

"I still have flesh," he sipped from the nearly empty glass, "It's just that my soul has been absorbed by the all-consuming, nebulous black void that is an empty existence."

"A real ray of sunshine you found for us, Morgan," Sylvia said.

"Not exactly my choice, Sylvie," her sister replied.

"Could you please either shut up or leave? I'm trying to wallow in nihilism here," the figure muttered.

"I guess that means we're not finding any captains here," Inigo concluded.

Morgan nodded, but paused a moment more and glanced at the man bent over the bar, "Hey, are there any more like you?"

"Like me?" he repeated, "You mean..."

"Living but soulless," she finished for him, "We need somebody, anybody."

"I know of no others," he shook his head slowly, "I'm sorry."

"Thank you," the thief patted his shoulder. He made no reply, and the group exited the tavern.

Steven busied himself by listening to the gentle rocking of the ship as it was caressed and cradled by the incoming waves. He had his eyes shut, listening, as the simplicity of the sound gave him a profound sense of serenity, far removed from all things save the most basic of rhythms. In this way, the orator could balance himself, center his thoughts, and be calm.

Of course, this was also how he coaxed himself to sleep, and the processes sometimes crossed over. He felt his head dipping back as he sat on a bench until he heard his father's voice beckon him softly. He roused himself, vision still faded, "Hm? Uh, what?"

"Sorry," his father chuckled, "didn't mean to interrupt your nap."

"Oh, no," he yawned, "I'm all right. Did you need something, father?"

"Just a chat with my son," he smiled, "I haven't heard much since your last letter."

"Ah," the silver-haired man nodded, "Well, I hadn't been doing much until this whole debacle began. In case mother didn't tell you, I conducted a little investigation into the East-Khan on Lon'qu's behalf."

"A source I've been studying myself," Robin nodded with interest, "What were the results of said investigation?"

"Inconclusive," the orator frowned, glancing at the ground, "There's an older man, a 'Lord Datura,' if memory serves, who has intimate knowledge of and relation to the Khan Regnant. The poor boy may simply be a puppet, but that's only conjecture."

"Very interesting," the Grandmaster scrutinized, "and you met up with your mother after that?"

"Correct."

"Anything interesting before that?"

"Did I tell you about Sophie?"

" _Votre 'belle dame d'or_?'"

"I'll take that as a yes."

"How's she doing?"

"Splendidly. I should like to introduce her to you someday... once all this unpleasant business is settled, of course."

"Feeling homesick at all?"

"Hah! Father, you know very well I'm not inclined to such things. My home is wherever I choose it to be, ergo I am always there. I've learned to live on the road."

His father gave him a reticent smile, "If you say so."

"Are you implying something, father?" his son wondered in a smile that mixed with indignity.

"Not at all," he shook his head, "I'm glad to see you're doing well. You make your father very proud, I hope you know that."

The silver-haired man hid a blush, "Er, thank you, father."

"Very touching," a scratchy voice from elsewhere mocked. The pair rose.

"Show yourself," Steven commanded calmly, "Wait a tick... That voice... but..."

"Something the matter, boy?" the same voice called. With it, a man with leaf-green hair sporting an eyepatch stepped out of an alleyway and stared directly at the silver-haired man, grasping the hilt of a sword.

Steven continued to stutter, staring back at the figure as his father roused his mother, who had nodded off. When she awoke, she mirrored her son, leaping to her feet and stammering incoherently at the menace. "What's got the two of you so rattled?" Robin wondered.

"That's what I wanna know," the mysterious swordsman gave a faint smirk, "You look like you've seen a ghost."

"You're not real," Steven decided, "I killed you. With my own two hands. I electrocuted you in these very waters. There's no way for you to be alive."

"And yet, here I am," his tone suggested mirth, but his face presented no such indication, "You didn't kill me, boy, but I won't deny that you hurt me. Rather badly. In fact, maybe you did kill me, but in any case, all I know is that I've returned, and I want to pay you back, twice over."

Robin stepped forward, "You might have them frightened, but your talk of resurrection doesn't frighten me. I've seen monsters far more menacing than you be reborn before my eyes."

"Father, be cautious..." Steven breathed.

Without another word, the swordsman leapt forward and slashed at the Grandmaster, who blocked the swipe with his arm, but received a nasty gash as a result. The cut bled quickly. Robin drew his sword in his other hand and pointed it at the green-haired man.

"Amusing," the swordsman jeered. He jumped forward again and slammed his blade against the well-timed guards of his opponent.

"Steven, Anna," Robin strained, skidding back with each strike, "A little help, perhaps?"

"Right," Steven opened one of his tomes and lifted his hand. It was sliced in half in a moment by a flash of his foe's sword, which narrowly missed the orator's fingers. Anna took a swing while the enemy's back was turned, but this was parried over the shoulder. Robin aimed at his flank, but was also blocked.

The swordsman kicked the silver-haired man to the floor, swung his arm around to smash Anna in the cheek, and drew his sword across the Grandmaster's chest, opening a sizable cut. Being the only one not incapacitated by the attack, Robin took a few more swings at the enemy, but these were easily parried and, after a moment, the green-haired man punched Robin while gripping the pommel of his sword, drawing blood and bruising the tactician's face. He fell to the ground as a result.

Momentarily satisfied, the green-haired man walked over to Steven, who was scrambling to get back up and retrieve another tome, but a boot was planted squarely on his chest and squeezed down on his ribcage, pushing the air out of his lungs and bringing a hollow feeling to his stomach; his vision became tinged with black wisps as the foot crushed down harder and harder.

Anna jumped back up, a cut bleeding over her eye, and took a swing at the swordsman, ripping through some of his clothes before he had the presence of mind to spin and thwart the rest of the attack by guarding with a vambrace and punching the redhead in her stomach. She spit and groaned before falling to her knees and tumbling over. With that threat removed, the swordsman returned his attention to the silver-haired man and pointed his sword so that its gleaming surface reflected Steven's face. "Now, I'm going to do what I came here to do. And when I'm done, and you're drowning in the infinite depths of perdition, I want you to remember this face. The face you failed to erase. The man you can't kill."

"All right, but whose face is that?" a voice from behind them called. Robin was slowly bringing himself to his feet, "All I see is a stubborn fool with a grudge."

The swordsman smiled, "You... you're the worst of all. I could say the same thing about you, old man. Nihilus told me everything about you. In fact, he never stopped talking about you. But now I see the legend in person... I'm disappointed. You're not so special, not so invincible, you're just a sad old dotard who's too dumb to quit."

"You're with Nihilus?" the Grandmaster stole a few breaths.

"Of course," he grinned, "the greatest swordsman in the world can only have one master: the strongest man in existence."

"Is Nihilus really so powerful?" Robin panted, "If so, he should have beaten me without issue back in Lieben."

"Right," the green-haired man nodded, "Your war games... Do you know about what is called 'human error,' tactician? Nihilus spoke to me of it many times. That's why my master was forced to flee: he wasn't defeated, someone just didn't follow the script."

The Grandmaster chuckled, "That's a pretty convenient excuse to distance oneself from failure. I could say I'm perfect, too, if I blamed my every mistake on someone else."

The swordsman shook his head, "You don't understand him. Nor do I, truly... but none of that is of consequence now, because I'm going to crush this little bugger, and then I'm going to rend you and that redheaded bitch to scraps and catch a boat to join my comrades."

A sudden wind threw the swordsman off his feet. Steven moved his hand from the green tome, "No... I'm afraid you're not."

"You little prick!" the man growled. He hopped back to his feet and, baring his teeth, kicked the silver-haired man in the head, causing his eyes to roll back into his head, which fell to the side. Robin had jogged over, but was moving slowly and still bleeding from his abdomen. He tried to slash the swordsman as he settled back following the kick, but the move was anticipated and halted with his own sword. "You want to play this game?" the man snarled, "Then let's play!" He swung his blade fiercely and with a speed that made it seem to bend in midair as it split the wind around it. It was all Robin could do to raise his arms and repel each strike, though he could hear the gravel grinding under him as he was pushed back by each successive swipe. Fearing that he would soon lose his ground entirely, the tactician looked for an opening to counterattack, even the smallest chance. He found it. It was dirty and precise, but it needed to be done in order to salvage this fight. When the swordsman's hands came up for an overhead slice, Robin leaned to the side as quickly as he could and extended his sword so that it drew across the man's exposed side: his left hand dropped off with a light thumping sound. "Son of a _whore_!" the swordsman screamed, throwing a final stab at the Grandmaster, who backed off quickly.

Robin pointed his sword, "Enough of this. You've been fighting long enough, I can see it." The tactician took particular notice of his opponent's eyepatch, "Just put down your sword and walk away. Neither I nor my family will pursue you if you do."

The green-haired man laughed as blood dripped steadily from the stump of his arm, which he buried in his chest, "You think you understand me... that you know my motivations, right? You think I'll slink away because the fight isn't worth it anymore? You don't know a gods-damn thing."

"Then tell me," Robin panted.

A smile appeared on the swordsman's face, a profound smile that stretched his cheeks, "Maybe you are a different sort. Yes, I can see it in your eyes now, as I look. You're dying slowly, just like me, but you feel the same sense... And in that case, I shouldn't have to tell you why I fight on, and why I'll keep fighting."

"For your house, perhaps?" the Grandmaster suggested, "This is beyond a matter of nobility now. If it helps, you're the most powerful fighter I've ever encountered, stronger even than General Argent. I couldn't hope to beat you in an even fight, so there's no damage to your name if you step away from this."

"My name?" he sighed, "To the bloody _wind_ with my name! Don't be so stupid! You know exactly the reason! We share it! Look at me!" The green-haired man leveled his sword, "See here, I fight, and go on fighting, because it's the only life I've ever known. I had to fight to live, and so I did, and now... Now nothing else matters. At the end of the sodding world, I'll still be fighting because it's the only thing I can do. The only thing I know."

"I see," Robin tried to stand taller, wincing at the pain in his chest, "So... there's no convincing you, then."

"Only one of us is leaving here alive, old man," the swordsman reaffirmed, ready to spring forward. Robin nodded and took his stance. The wind off of the sea rose and buffeted the pair, spraying salt and foam onto the docks and through their hair. At the first drop of the winds, the swordsman flew forward, aiming directly at his opponent's heart. And when the sounds of pouring globs of congealed liquid echoed off the slate walkway, he felt his vision fading.

The Grandmaster had sidestepped him.

The green-haired man turned to face his opponent, who scowled at him piteously. He took a look at the remains of his amputated hand and saw the blood draining quicker and quicker. It was only in this instant that the swordsman took notice of the rest of his body, of his tattered clothes now smeared with dirt and crimson, the strange sensation in the muscles where his hand no longer responded, how his hair was damp and sweaty and riddled with salt, and the unbelievable throbbing sensation still reverberating from his eye, as if it were a door pounded upon by some beast. His muscles, arms and legs, felt heavy and dry, like they were burning, and his breathing was ragged. He realized, too, that his breaths were no longer regular: he was gulping air intermittently, and it never seemed to enter his lungs. He heard the terrible spilling noise of piles of his blood constantly spurting red stains onto the ground in front of him, like the regurgitation of some demon. It made him feel ill, and he collapsed.

Robin sighed and fell forward.

* * *

The sounds of armor clanking seemed to be coming from everywhere as Chrom and his Shepherds once again found themselves racing along the Ylissean plains. The exalt might have felt nostalgia if not for the terror implicit in the situation. He had to be prepared for anything, it was impossible to know what the Feroxi had done with his capital after their ambush, but he knew he would make the perpetrators answer for their actions. In truth, the sapphire-haired lord was a bit concerned that he was missing a certain someone who could help greatly in the upcoming struggle, but that man might be an ocean away at this point, and there was certainly nothing guaranteeing he'd be as happy to see Chrom as Chrom would be to see him.

The exalt had to try to focus on other matters, like the absence of his son and the presence of his daughter and what his next move would be when the company returned to Ylisstol. Hopefully, King Henry would be there to greet them with much of their army still intact, but there could be no promise of that. The irony of his needing to join Plegia in combatting Feroxi insurgents was not lost on the sapphire-haired lord as he began to consider what he'd say to King Henry, and how this would affect relations between their nations in years to come. That assumed Ylisse still existed as a nation after all this, Chrom recalled, having seen little of his country in the past few weeks. After a while, the exalt simply attempted to mute his thoughts, for they were too numerous and too complex to consider in the midst of his current endeavor.

Ylisstol was in a dire state. That was the first thing that came to Henry's mind upon seeing the shining palace, desecrated as it was. He had never been on a formal visit to the Ylissean capital, but he could guess that it displayed none of its original splendor, holes and collapsed bricks spewing forth from ceilings and scorched walls, Feroxi and Valmese banners raised sporadically in place of the Ylissean colors, and a pulsating mass of soldiers in various states of refinement passing in and out at will. Henry had fought the enemy's commanders a few times now and had seen that they were really nothing special. Determined, certainly, but powerful enough to overwhelm Lucina and the Shepherds? It seemed impossible. Henry guessed there must have been something else behind it. And his foes' incompetence wasn't the only reason for that belief: there was a bizarre air around the palace, with dark greenish clouds beginning to fill the air. The purpose with which the soldiers marched seemed unwarranted by their weakness, and the whole region seemed to buzz with that quiet sense that gives one a shiver when left alone. It was overcast in Ylisstol, and the dark didn't seem to be breaking.

But with some ten thousand or more troops behind him, it was difficult for Henry to feel afraid of the treasonous men who stood in his way. He wished he could understand why these proud Feroxi had chosen to strike against their staunch ally. Then again, it was almost equally shocking that Plegia had come to Ylisse's aid, but that could be ascribed to a change in management. That thought led Henry to the mysterious East-Khan of Ferox, the Nameless Khan, and to Steven's investigation, which had prompted him to look into the affair to begin with. He also thought about Tharja, but she was off in one of her moods. Then he thought about Noire, because he could hear her shivering beside him, "Everything okay, honey?"

"Y-You waited until we were hundreds if not thousands of miles away from home and embroiled in an international conflict to ask if I'm okay?" she cried.

"...Well, are you?"

"I've been worse."

"That's the spirit!"

"I wish mother were here... she always seems to know what to do."

"I know what we're doing."

"Are you sure it's going to work?"

"No, future-sight spells don't work very well. They can be really unreliable."

"Father..."

"But I'm sure you'll be fine, because I'll rip anyone who comes after you into tiny little chunks of watermelon-colored flesh that will be happily gobbled up by all the little crows! Even if I get cut in half doing it! Ooh, wonder what that'd be like..."

Noire fainted and her face pressed into the neck of her horse. "Whoopsy-daisy," said Henry.

An icy wind blew across the valley that led into Ylisstol and its palace. An army of black-clad soldiers, a group of heroes-for-hire in a disparity of clothing, and several columns of mercenaries sporting armor with purple tinges all began to converge on that point.


	26. If This is It

Upon rushing to return to Robin, Anna, and Leo, Sylvia was the first to arrive and be halted in her tracks by fear. A few curious glances appeared on her siblings' faces when she slowed to a trot in front of the harbor, then slowed to a complete stop and screamed. The rest of the group hurried to meet her, and were similarly displeased with what they saw.

Morgan tried to console her sister as she fitfully brought out her staff and shone it on their mother first. Leo tried vainly to rouse his brother and father in the meantime. Inigo stood in the midst of the family and scratched his head, looking nervously at all of them. He spotted the green-haired corpse that was crumpled in a pile of its own blood along the edge of the harbor, and the dismembered hand that lay, fingers curled, a few feet away. Logic suggested the conclusion, but how hurt were the involved parties?

"Go... help... your father," words spilled out of Anna's mouth as if she had been holding them in her cheeks. Her bottom lip was cut and spilling blood, and her left cheek was swollen and blue-purple, forcing her left eye to squint.

"Not until I know you're okay," Sylvia refused, her eyes remaining distant.

"I'm fine," she assured her. The merchant stole a contemptuous glance at her assailant and spat, "Dastard got me pretty good, but I'm not seriously hurt. Get your dad and your brother, please." Sylvia didn't answer. "Sylvie, mommy's asking you, help your father."

The brunette looked back to her sister and they shared a nod. She stood and walked over to her father, kneeling beside him and aiming her staff. Morgan frowned, propping up her mother by her shoulder, "Are you sure you'll be all right?"

"For now," she grit her teeth, "Yeah, but... this has me worried."

"What about?"

"Think about it: Argent knocked us all senseless, now this guy was three steps from killing us all in no time flat... What the hell kind of monster is the head honcho?"

Morgan trained her eyes on the cobblestone upon which she kneeled, "I agree it doesn't look good, but maybe he's just hiding behind them. Maybe he's not as strong as he likes to make himself out to be."

"You'd know better than anyone."

"Come again?"

"You and your father are the only ones among us who have even shared a word with that guy. You're the only ones who have any idea what he's capable of."

Morgan swallowed, remembering her encounter with Nihilus. She felt the irritation of ash welling up in her throat. The thief shook her head, "I wanted to say... I'm sorry I never made it to you that day."

Anna smiled a little, "It can't be helped. Extenuating circumstances."

Morgan dissented, "Every day since that one has been misery. I feel like I can barely breathe anymore... like, like something just isn't right."

The taller redhead nodded solemnly, "I can see why you say that... you're crazy if you think I wanted any of this. If it didn't affect our home, I never would have gotten involved. Same goes for your father, if not for his damn sense of obligation."

"We need to hurry to Ylisse, don't we?" Morgan sighed after a pause.

"Seems like it's the only way," her mother answered.

Robin gripped his chest tightly as he sat up, then groaned and winced at the pain. "Lay down!" his daughter chided, "You'll mess up the magic suture!" He lay back down silently. "Honestly, how many times am I going to find you at death's door?"

"I've been known to make quite a few brushes..." he sighed.

"This can't go on," the performer's voice dropped, "You're hurt. In a lot of ways. You're old and your body's gnarled, you've got scars everywhere, your joints and muscles aren't functioning well... You're just waiting to fall apart."

"You sure do know how to make a man feel better, Sylvie," he frowned.

"Forgive me for getting sick of thinking my father's dead!" she shouted back, "If you want to die, just hurry up and spare me the third heart attack!"

"Easy, Sylvia," her father stroked her cheek with his thumb, smudging a tear, "there's no need for that kind of talk. I'm sorry. I really don't mean for it to happen."

"Just stop fighting," she begged, "that's all you have to do."

"I know."

"But you won't."

Robin didn't answer.

"We can't afford to keep wasting time." The family turned their heads to see Inigo in their center clenching his fist. Anna was applying her staff to Steven, so she kept her head down. The prince continued, "I don't mean to sound critical, but something has to be done. If forces like this are in my home... Lucina... I can only imagine. As a prince, I won't sit on my hands anymore. I'll take us home if I have to steer the ship myself."

"No offense, but I don't think you're quite cut out for that, son," Robin sat up again, earning him a glare from Sylvia.

"Well, help's not coming from anywhere else," he replied, "Our investigation was a waste; there's no one else here."

"Dammit," Robin exhaled, "but... how can that be?"

Morgan answered for him, "A single man we met at the inn told us some 'devil' came around and 'stole their souls.' Most importantly, he told us no one was left alive here."

"Stealing souls?" Robin tasted the words, "What kind of lunacy...? Ill business, to be sure. Still... I'm not quite confident..."

"What else can we do?" Inigo returned, "I won't sit back any longer, and this is the only way forward."

"I'll help him navigate," Morgan tacked on, "I read through your sea charts enough times, father."

Robin shut his eyes and grinned, "This is really how it's going to go down, isn't it?"

"It has to be," Steven held his stomach as he sat up. Anna scowled at him. "As much as I prefer diplomacy, sometimes there's only one way to fell a snake."

"Then go," Robin nodded at his youngest daughter, "Get things ready. We'll depart immediately."

"I hope we can all still walk when we make landfall," Steven chuckled. When his mother patted him on the leg, he stood and walked toward the ship, followed by his siblings. The parents remained behind a moment, staring at the gangplank.

"You know, once we get up there, there's no going back. This will have to end one way or another," Robin breathed heavily, shielding his eyes a bit from the sunlight.

Anna stared ahead and folded her hand into that of her husband. She gripped it tightly as her cheeks tensed.

* * *

Henry flung his arm out and a swell of purple gas drowned the charging mercenary. With another swipe, he released a snaking burst of fire that walled him off from his enemies. The flame licked at the heels of knights whose horses neighed loudly and flung them from their backs. The sorcerer threw out a few more sparks of dark magic and sent several more of them scurrying. Hopefully that would keep them back for a moment.

"Are you all right, Noire?" he shouted. The snow-haired girl was clutching her bow carefully, not daring to set foot off the horse she had been granted.

"I-I'm okay," she yelled back shakily.

Henry nodded, no worries there, at least. The Plegian king took a moment to inspect the battlefield, and regretted to note that he did not like what he saw: the Feroxi warriors had drawn in close with their axes and were slaughtering his mages. Of course, there were mercenaries behind them, too, most of whom were armed with swords and lances and armored about as fully as Henry's most elite units. This had the potential to be very bad. The king called upon his wyvern riders to support their comrades on the ground and let loose a few large blasts of fire on the Feroxi to make them think twice. He couldn't ignore, however, that their position was sinking. Something had to be done quickly.

Henry could hear more footsteps charging up the hill toward him, and so he punished the attackers with more fire, throwing them off the side of the hill. More rode up behind them, and a few mages tossed small bolts of thunder and little vortexes at him. He dodged those easily enough and choked a few of the reinforcements with more dark magic, but he began to feel sweat creep onto his brow. He brushed his forehead with his arm just in time to see an arrow stick in the head of one of the mages. Right between the eyes.

"BLOOD AND THUNDER!" the king heard a vaguely familiar voice shout, "REMOVE YOURSELF FROM MY SIGHT, CRETINS! YOUR PRESENCE IRRITATES MY FATHER, AND SO IT IRRITATES ME!"

"Thanks for the save, Noire," Henry chuckled, "D'ya think you could get rid of the rest of them?" Noire cackled and made a sort of shrug with her arms, then trained her bow and toppled three more mages in rapid succession. "I'll take that as a 'yes,'" Henry concluded, "Thanks, sweetie!"

The sniper howled with maniacal laughter and picked off a few more of the advancing troops.

With some extra time bought, Henry sent a few more explosions of flame into the lines of Feroxi that were colliding with his own and tossed in some pools of dark magic that grabbed at the enemy and suffocated them, hoping to find any way he could check their advance. Unfortunately, fighting a whole country's worth of troops was proving even more difficult than it sounded. The Ylissean troops standing in reserve were sweating while holding their weapons tightly, their brows looming despairingly as they watched the battle continue. The Plegian king could feel the noose tightening.

"You'll go no further, villains!" a voice shouted across the plains.

Henry shook his head incredulously: Lucina pointed her rapier as her father and the rest of the Shepherds rode up the field and toward the battle lines. Chrom dismounted and bowled straight into a pile of Feroxi warriors, throwing them aside with little more than a flourish of his cape. The sorcerer felt compelled to admit that age had treated his fellow ruler well. The exalt impaled another warrior on Falchion and kicked him off, "You're mistaken if you think I'll let you take over my halidom without a fight."

The Plegian king heard voices popping up in the enemy crowd: "Is that Exalt Chrom?"

"Impossible! Lord Nihilus killed him!"

"Then who do you suppose that is!"

"Some imposter, a decoy, meant to fool us and rally the enemy!"

"He doesn't fight like a decoy."

"So what?! Just kill him!"

The exalt knocked down another swath of the Feroxi with a big, heavy swing of Falchion. Lucina skipped down and impaled a few on her rapier quickly after him. A roar rang out from some Plegians and all of the Ylisseans, including the ones now rejoining their comrades, as the exalt, his daughter, and the rest of the Shepherds stormed the field.

"Exalt Chrom is back!"

"Yes! That's it! Give it to 'em, my lord! There's no one I'd sooner serve!"

"Lady Lucina's with them, too!"

"The whole Shepherd's Garrison is here! We can't lose!"

"Soldiers of Ylisse!" Chrom's voice boomed over the field so that every ear attended him, regardless of whether they were the ones being addressed, "I'm sorry that I allowed myself to be taken from you in a time of such great danger and upheaval, but I have returned. I ask you now to fight with me, to take back our home!"

Frenzied shouts echoed from the Ylissean lines. Soon, knights bearing blue armor were surging to the front lines, stabbing and slashing at the aggressors and growling as the line gradually pushed in the opposite direction: the Feroxi began to drop back. Henry smiled, spotting plenty of familiar faces in the crowd that charged forward. He also chuckled with delight as corpses were thrown left and right by massive bursts of magic. He decided to sprinkle in a few more of his own before he got Noire's attention, "Hey, Noire! I think it's time for us to move up and help the advance!"

His daughter was panting heavily in front of several rows of bloodied bodies, "O-Okay." They spurred their horses down the hill to join with Chrom and the advancing Shepherds.

"Nice digs, Junior," was the first greeting he heard.

"Hey, Gaius. You guys picked a heckuva time to show up."

"We do what we can, now that we're big-time heroes and all. Where's the old ball-and-chain?"

"She went to Ferox."

"Know why?"

"Probably to figure out what got all this started. Though, I have my suspicions she's seeking out an old flame, if you get my meaning."

"Why do you put up with that?"

"It's... different than the way she feels about me. Hard to describe, but it doesn't bug me. Besides, there are more important things right now."

"True enough. You want me to give the deets to Mr. and Ms. Blue Blood?"

"That'd be good. Tell them we didn't provoke this; we were waiting at the border the whole time, then about two hours ago they jumped us. I don't know what changed, but it's nothing good."

"Got it. I'll pass it on."

"Thanks. Is Maribelle okay?"

"Fit as a fiddle, but... well, not everyone in the company can say the same. Just keep your eyes front, Junior."

"Will do. Later, Gaius."

The thief jogged off, headed for the exalt. The news he shared left Henry frowning: he didn't like to think that any of his comrades were gone, but it was a real possibility. He still had no idea what this stupid war was about, but it needed to be over with. He would personally seek a gory end to its instigators. He sorcerer was placated by the thought of tearing open an enemy general's head with his own two hands.

* * *

The office was soberingly silent on that day. Little chills occasionally poked into the small building along with the gusts of air that curled up under the door. Wood creaked every so often when the building settled, but other than that, few sounds graced the floors. The amethyst-haired man sat at his desk smiling gently. This was precisely what he'd asked for, after all. Cyrus, meanwhile, was lounging back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with a frown on his face. Eventually, when it was clear Nihilus wasn't going to initiate a conversation, he spoke up, "Is there any reason we really need to do this?"

"We're making sure we remain incognito for now. If someone finds us out, it'll make the rest of this insanely more difficult."

"Couldn't we do that by just getting out of here?"

"There's nowhere else we need to go until Argent takes control of the country. That's going to take a while, but once it's done, then we can get moving."

"You don't wanna try to get some other allies in the meantime?"

"Spreading ourselves thin and making unnecessary alliances and therefore obligations is bad planning. The important thing is that we start strong. One decisive victory after a long period of strategizing means more than a million smaller successes."

"I dunno, seems like you're the one thinkin' small, kiddo."

"Don't call me that," Nihilus said severely.

The swordsman's eyes widened, "Sure thing. I just wish I knew why you were so sure..."

The amethyst-haired man paused, "Do you trust me?"

"Wouldn't be here if I didn't."

"So you would believe me even if I told you something that sounds impossible?"

"Unless it's something like, 'To win, we have to kill lotsa kids.'"

"Nothing like that. Cyrus... from when I was a boy, I've been able to see things..."

"You and most people, bud."

"Let me finish. I've been able to see things before they happen."

Cyrus cocked an eyebrow, "Before they happen? You mean you're some kinda psychic?"

"Something like that," he supposed, "I don't understand it completely myself. I have reason to believe it comes from my mother's side of the family." He pulled down his sleeve to gaze at the purple marks that had made him vilified for his entire childhood, "Whatever the case may be, I get these visions every so often. I can control them for short durations, but the longer, further-away ones... they appear to me seemingly at random."

"So..." the green-haired man took a long pause, "Are you 'bout to tell me that this whole plan of yours came to you in a vision?"

"Essentially," he felt his face grow hot, "I know that sounds ridiculous, but... I saw you, and I saw this army of mercenaries... I saw Argent... I've seen all kinds of things that don't make sense in the moment, but then I watch as every one comes true."

"And what do you see at the end of all this?"

"Vindication. A world where people know our pain... where the world is run the way it's meant to be run."

"And what does that mean?"

"I'm tired of kings and nobles who pretend they're at peace when their own poor are suffering in the gutters, where subjugation and discrimination run rampant and nobody cares, because out of sight is out of mind. I want a world where anyone has the right to fight against injustice."

"Specifically...?"

"I'm talking about a world where every man is his own master, free to wage his own wars as he sees fit: no kings, no nobles, no classes, just every man for his gods-damn self. And if you're strong enough, you get to live in a world tailored to you, and if you're too weak, you die. There's no such thing as political power, your influence is equal to how strong your will is."

"I won't say I don't like it," Cyrus uncorked a flask, "but... if there aren't any rulers, how are you gonna get all this done?"

"I'll take control of everything first, spreading my influence. I'll kick out every king and nobleman in this gods-forsaken world and take their seat by myself or by proxy, and once that's done, I'll turn the reins loose. Let our new era begin."

"Even if you get unseated?"

"This was never about me. Of course, if someone wants to kill me, they'll find trouble."

"I have no doubt. You _are_ one tough sonuvabitch."

"I'd say the same about you. So, still on board?"

"Absolutely. Even better now that I can parse some o' that crazy gibberish you were spouting before."

The pair were smiling when they heard a knock at the door. Nihilus waved his hand to encourage his compatriot to look a little more professional, then spoke up, "Come in."

An older gentleman entered the office wearing a long coat and robe. His hair was chrome-colored and his face was wrinkled and gaunt, upon further inspection. He wore spectacles that sat low on the bridge of his nose, far from his eyes, which were soft, fuzzy gray. His cheeks were pale and thin, and his voice did not convey health, "I'm here to speak with a Lord Nihilus...?"

There was a boy with him, no older than ten. The boy was small in frame, and his white hair seemed to make him even lesser in presence. He had soft blue eyes, too, and his hands folded together as he stood, gaze pinned to the floor. "Unassuming" didn't even begin to describe it. Nihilus felt an immediate fondness for the strange, shy child, though he couldn't explain why. Then he started to feel cold again, remembered the open door and thus his guest, "Uh, yes. I'm Lord Nihilus."

"Is that so?" the older man's jaw shifted into a smile that made Nihilus's stomach tighten, "Well, then I have a business prospect to discuss with you."

"Something to do with the district?" the amethyst-haired man suggested politely.

"Something to do with your greater objective," the man replied.

Nihilus frowned, "I don't know what you mean."

He chuckled, "Don't play coy. You were just discussing those plans. I heard about them through some of my networks. Your grand scheme to rework the world."

"If you're going to try and arrest us, or something, you can forget it, you geezer," Cyrus glared at him.

"No, quite the contrary."

"Networks?" Nihilus was still hung up on the remark.

"Yes," he smiled, "I have methods of exerting influence... gathering information, making certain threats disappear... a variety of things, all done in absolute silence. That's my specialty, and that's what I can provide to your plan, if you'll allow me."

"Something about this guy doesn't sit right with me, Nihilus," Cyrus said, still glaring.

"Noted," Nihilus replied, "What is your name, sir?"

"Datura," he answered.

Nihilus's eyes widened, "I... believe I've heard of some of your deeds. You do get the job done well, if memory serves. Validar would have had considerable difficulty seizing the throne if not for you."

"Just so," he went on smiling, "have I inspired some belief?"

"Provisionally," Nihilus folded his arms, "This boy with you... is he your son?"

"My nephew," he corrected, "Handsome little chap isn't he? He's a part of my plan, too. He's the son of the East-Khan's aunt, and there's reason to believe he may he eligible for the throne."

Nihilus's eyes flashed with realization, "Oh. Is that it?"

"Quite."

After a moment of bowing his head, the clairvoyant nodded, "I understand, and I am intrigued by your plan. What's the lad's name?"

"Vlasis."

"Very well. Take Vlasis back home and attempt to execute this idea of yours. If you succeed, we'll get in contact. Until then, however, do not attempt to meet me again and thereby jeopardize my situation."

"I understand," he bowed, "Thank you, Lord Nihilus."

The door shut behind Datura as he left and another chill swept through the room. "I still don't like 'im," Cyrus concluded.

* * *

Nihilus lifted his head as Dahlia caught his attention, "Sir, there seems to be a bit of a disturbance on the horizon."

He looked out and could only see the faint markings of bodies slamming into one another en masse. "You'll have to specify, I can't make anything out this far away."

"We received a report, sir," she fluttered a paper in her hand, "Our scouts came back with interesting and concerning news: apparently Exalt Chrom and his Shepherds have rejoined the enemy."

"Damn," he sighed, "I should have known it was foolish to try to imprison him. Even more so, I should have tried to track him down, but there was no time at that point... I assumed we'd cut him off. ...It's no bother, I always expected the exalt was meant to be in this battle."

"No bother?" Dahlia repeated, "I may have to disagree, milord. While no match for us individually, Exalt Chrom and his army represent something terrible for our plans."

"It may be less fearsome than you think," he replied, "There will be a great loss of life in Ylisstol, I know that. That's why the plan was always to come here. This was the only spot where the fight could ever really finish, isn't it?"

"I think I understand," Dahlia nodded, "Still... I'm concerned about our forces."

"Then let's hurry to support them," her superior countered. She nodded and gave the command to hurry the rest of their troops. Horses picked up their trots into gallops and armor rattled all around as the group picked up its pace and surged toward the battle lines. As the distance began to close, Nihilus turned to his lieutenant, "Dahlia, I'm going to garrison the capital so that it can't be overtaken. I'm going to count on you to take care of the exalt and his advance. Can you do that?"

"Sir, I'm not certain," she admitted, "Exalt Chrom is quite powerful, and the troops he has..."

"Are infinitely inferior to ours," Nihilus finished, "You have to remain strong, Dahlia. Our end is closer than ever, you can't afford to waver in your determination now. The only way to go is forward."

"Milord is correct, as ever," she steeled herself, "Very well. Please, hurry to your destination, I will stop Exalt Chrom and any other who dares attempt to move on the capital."

"Good woman," he nodded, "I'll leave most of the troops to you. Signal me if something goes wrong."

"Of course," she agreed and their paths diverged, only a few horses left tailing after the amethyst-haired man. Before long, Dahlia found herself facing down Ylissean soldiers with Chrom not far behind them.

"Enemy reinforcements!" she heard Chrom shout, "They'll try to flank us! Armored divisions, to the north side!"

By the time Dahlia had dismounted, knights in heavy armor were bearing down on her, but she leapt past them, tripping them up and pulling their helmets off for other troops to end them, or simply stabbing them precisely in the eye holes of their gear to keep moving. She flowed through the lines, unable to be stopped until a general upended her with a lance. She fell forward onto her face, but flipped back up quickly, more than a little angry. Dahlia was shocked she had 't seen him coming. She saw this general had no helmet, and so his plain face and black hair stood out. He must be very confident or significant, that was what Dahlia decided, and so she sprung his neck. The big man put up a decent fight, using long strokes of his lance to thwart Dahlia's light-footed style, but she cut across his face eventually, making him drop his lance and cup his hand over the wound. Dahlia seized this opportunity to stab him in the throat and move on.

She next spotted a blonde woman atop a horse who was slinging bursts of magic into the lines, knocking her army back. Dahlia decided that made her a high-value target and sped through the enemy lines to reach the woman, who was not at all prepared. One quick slash across the chest dropped her from her mount and into a pile of dirt as Dahlia skipped away, thinking she heard the woman calling her "brute" or something similar.

Evidently, her work had enraged the group, as they were beginning to turn focus onto her. The rose-haired woman could easily avoid any of the Ylissean or Plegian soldiers, however; their attacks were completely ineffective. She was caught by surprise when a pegasus knight tried to skewer her from above, but she managed to dodge the strike and flipped over the lance onto the pegasus herself. She stabbed its rider—a mauve-haired woman—in the back and shoved her off, then set the beast down away from the fighting. It made no move to resist, so she let it be before returning to the battle at hand.

As soon as she did, a heavily armored knight charged her, sporting brown hair, gloriously embossed cerulean armor, and a vicious scowl. He swung at her once and dropped her. Dahlia rose cautiously: he was clearly very well trained, and very angry. She could use that to her advantage, however. She got up and made a simple jeering gesture at him, but that was enough to invite his rage again, for the knight came after her once more. As he did, she timed herself carefully and, when he drew close, she leapt past his lance and wrapped her arms around him, using her weight to drag him off the horse and into the dirt. There, she punched his uncovered face a few times to stun him and stabbed him before he could recover.

Hurrying, the Rose Blade doubled back out of the enemy lines, thinking she'd hurt them enough for now by the despairing looks on their faces. She was panting, however: if all the Ylissean officers were this tough, it was going to be a long fight. She settled herself back into her own lines, crashing against the Ylisseans and Plegians, and tore apart the peons before her. The Ylissean line had stopped moving.

She swallowed, however, when she saw the exalt, a terrible fire in his eyes, bashing troops aside and making a beeline for her.

* * *

The deck of the ship was mostly silent. Ingio delicately shifted the wheel side to side in an effort to maintain their course. Morgan busied herself rummaging through her father's aged maps and hoping to chart the best route available. She found it amusing to distract Inigo slightly by peering over the map with flirty glances every so often, and delighted in seeing his red face when he demanded that she stop so that he could concentrate on steering the ship and not killing them all. Leo was mute, taking up residence at the ship's rear. Sylvia made a few futile efforts to communicate with him, but he remained there, arms folded, staring back at the disappearing horizon. Eventually, Sylvia decided that she, too, was too tired to speak, and so she stood beside him, neither of the pair willing to make any noise.

Robin, Anna, and Steven were concentrated in the captain's quarters, sitting around a mahogany table. While his parents were concentrating on one another, understandably concerned about the other's health, the silver-haired young man was occupied with other thoughts. Particularly, he was beginning to imagine the type of man they would be standing against, this "Nihilus." He had caught a glimpse of the man back at Lieben Keep, but the man was still marginally an unknown. Steven hated unknowns. Mostly, he was concerned with how such a man could have eluded all of his investigations and information networks. He wasn't the prying sort, but he found it hard to believe he'd never heard of someone so influential prior to this time. This Nihilus was very clever, or, otherwise, had someone quite knowledgeable working for him, to keep things quiet. Steven decided that had to be the explanation: there was a force working against him that he hadn't seen keeping him from learning about Nihilus, else he would have come to know about these plans.

The gears in the orator's mind kept turning, and his thoughts proceeded to the other major mystery of the little drama that was playing out before him: the strange figure dressed in all red. Was it "Crimson Hood" or "Scarlet Hood?" He seemed to recall hearing both of those names, but he hadn't seen much of the figure in some time. At first, he guessed it was his mother trying to hide her involvement (getting into other people's wars is bad for business) but she had been there and seemed shock when the figure appeared to them and Leo. The figure also knew the stance of Leo's order of assassins, which according to Leo meant that the figure also had to be a member of the order. Identities were strictly guarded among that order, however, so that answer dissatisfied Steven. He decided to ask, "Father, at any point in your travels with Morgan, Inigo, and Sylvia, did you encounter a figure dressed in all red who called himself 'Crimson Hood' or 'Scarlet Hood,' or some similar nonsense?"

"I can't say that I did," Robin shook his head.

"Still thinking about that?" Anna smiled slightly.

"I don't like to leave truths half-discovered," her son replied, "There was something strange about that person... and I only ever saw him when Nihilus started to show up, though there are stories about a similar character well before my time."

"Maybe someone's just trying to seize on the popularity of a legend to push an agenda," his father supplied.

"Possible," he cupped his chin, "but what agenda could that be? And it still doesn't answer why he only started showing up now."

"What makes you so sure it's a 'he?'" Anna giggled.

"Mother, you were there, you heard his voice," Steven responded.

"I know, I'm just giving you a hard time," the redhead looked at her husband and winked.

"I get the sense that person and Nihilus must be linked somehow," Steven continued, "and he seems very concerned with our family. He saved me once, and then again with you and Leo, it showed us the way to Lieben."

"A guardian angel trying to help us thwart Nihilus, it seems," Robin concluded.

"Maybe," his son sighed, "but why us? Something here just doesn't add up."

"That's for sure," the Grandmaster assented.

"Father," the orator began rubbing his right temple, "Nihilus... what kind of man is he? Do you know anything about him?"

"Not much," said the Grandmaster, "He's a very clever tactician, for certain. He has a remarkable capacity to predict the movements of his opponents. If Morgan remembered his message to her correctly, he's gunning for Chrom and I, and who knows who else."

"Such a strange adversary I've never known in all my days," the silver-haired man sighed resignedly, "I'll just have to keep thinking on it. It's the only thing I can do to not go crazy sitting on this boat."

"I can empathize with that," Robin laughed.

"I'll take my leave for now, then," their son said, "Some fresh sea air might clear my thoughts."

"Best of luck," Robin waved him off.

"You know, I've got a weird feeling, too," Anna put her hand inside her husband's, "Ever since all this started, something just hasn't been sitting right."

"I think I've been feeling it, too," he nodded.

"At first, I attributed it to missing you," she blushed, holding him a little more tightly, "but now... Everywhere we go seems colder and darker than normal, like winter everywhere, don't you think?"

Robin thought about it and agreed, "The sun hasn't been showing itself frequently of late. Do you think it's related to this whole affair with Nihilus?"

"Him, the weather, and that red figure... they must all be related somehow," the merchant concluded, "It has to be true."

"Any theories?" Robin cocked an eyebrow.

"None whatsoever," she flattened, "I just hope all this business gets sorted before long."

The Grandmaster put his arm around his wife's back and held her, "It will be, and then things will quiet down and go back to normal."

"They had better," she kissed him.

"Feel like getting some sleep?" Robin offered, thumbing at the door behind them that led to a small room with a bed and some bookshelves.

Anna smirked at him and grabbed his arm, "Sure... but we're going to be very, very awake for a little bit first."

The Grandmaster shrugged and acquiesced. Even after they had enjoyed themselves and begun to rest, however, much like his son, Robin's mind was troubled. Something was about to happen, and if they weren't in Ylisstol to prevent it, or, at least, bear witness to it, he felt sure the consequences would be disastrous.

* * *

The amethyst-haired man stalked down the halls. They were mostly cream-colored with ornate draperies hanging all around. Charming and homey, if a bit dull, he thought. He continued to walk about the throne room, pressing his hands against those walls until he finally found what he was looking for: a brick in the wall gave way and shifted. He pressed it in further and he could hear the rumblings of a mechanism. A passage through the wall revealed itself, although a large blue door stood in the way. An impression was embossed in the door that took the shape of a very particular blade.

Nihilus sighed. Of course, it couldn't be that simple. Chrom would have to be an imbecile to make so foolish a mistake. Still, this complicated the plan. But Dahlia was out there, and destiny was destiny. He would have the "key" to this door soon, and with it, the key to his future.

In a case behind that blue door, a golden shield, filled with five gemstones, resonated and radiated.


	27. When It's Over

Cyrus was laughing loudly, cleaning his blade on the deceased's clothing, "Haha! Bloody ponce never saw it coming!"

"I wish you'd conduct yourself with a bit more decorum, Cyrus," his superior sighed.

The swordsman smirked, "C'mon, you wouldn't change a thing."

Nihilus glanced at the blade held by his lieutenant, "You're efficient, if nothing else. I do appreciate your virtues where they can be found, it's just that they're few and far between."

"Thanks," the green-haired man grinned, "you can go ahead and kiss my ass."

"I do agree, however," the mauve-haired man conceded after taking a few steps to inspect the room, "that was almost unbelievably easy. The man didn't even have a single guard posted at his door."

"I think I could make a good career out of this whole 'assassin for hire' thing," Cyrus played with his sword a bit more.

"Not anytime soon," his superior corrected him, "We're only doing this to move things along, remember that."

"Yeah," the swordsman kicked his target in the head, "That's what he gets for bein' a stubborn ol' bump in the road."

Nihilis nodded, "I find it gets harder to be patient every passing day. The desire to fulfill my vision pulls at me with each waking moment."

"I get that," Cyrus laughed, "I'm not much for temperance, either."

"Excuse me," the pair lifted their heads. A woman with hair in the color of spring roses drifted into the doorway, her arm rested on the pommel of a sword clipped to her belt. Her dress was a curious mixture of refinement and simplicity: she wore an elaborate Chon'sin-styled overcoat, but beneath it were the clothes of Feroxi or Plegian plainfolk, tan and brown.

Cyrus stepped forward and drew his sword, pointing it at her with a menacing scowl, "Don't make any trouble for yourself, girly. Out with ya."

The mysterious woman frowned at him, took a step forward and, in the blink of Nihilus's eye, was beside him, chokeslamming him to the floor. "Whoever you are," she hissed, "I didn't come for your condescension, I came for him." The woman stood and turned to face Nihilus, who was watching with folded arms.

The green-haired swordsman leapt to his feet, red-faced and aiming his sword, but Nihilus halted him by calling his name and holding up his palm, "It seems the lady has something to discuss."

"Indeed," she nodded. Cyrus groaned and took a step back, lowering his weapon. "Master Nihilus," the rose-haired woman spoke, "I have come a great way seeking you."

"And why is that?"

"I have heard tell of your designs for our world, and of your past. I feel that we are kindred spirits; of like minds, you see."

"My past? Your meaning eludes me, dear girl."

"I know you'd prefer not to speak of it, I comprehend your shame, but I know it all the same. Regardless, I will return to myself: I come from Rosanne. As you may know, the women of Rosanne are much beloved and sought-after around the world for their sensuousness. 'A perfect woman is Rosannien,' this is tautology, no?"

"What are you getting at?"

"My point, good sir, is that some Rosannien women, such as myself, are a bit... too sought-after. Ones such as these become... commodities."

Nihilus's brow tightened, "Ah, I see. And so that is why you have come?"

"Indeed," she nodded, "I would like to show my sisters strength. I wish to be their light in the dark, as you have been to so many already."

"Sure, a washed-up whore. That's just what we need in our ranks," Cyrus scoffed.

The woman's eyes were already cutting him to ribbons as her hands drifted to her sword. "Cyrus, that's quite enough!" the amethyst-haired man scolded, "You moved faster than the fastest man in my employ, that makes you a subject of interest. I will subject you to rigorous training, however."

"I am willing to undergo all in milord's name," she bowed her head.

Nihilus's nostrils flared as he gave an amused sigh, "A bit formal, aren't you? Prithee, good lady, what's your name?"

"Please call me Dahlia, sir," she requested.

"Very well," the man nodded, "I look forward to seeing what you're capable of, Dahlia."

* * *

"You bitch!" Dahlia's heels dug into the dirt beneath her as Falchion slammed against her own blade. Exalt Chrom's strike was so powerful it seemed to have its own gravity, sinking her whole body as it pushed down on her. Sweating, she gave up and broke the lock, jumping back. "You're not getting away!" he grabbed vainly for her clothing, his fist crushing the air before her.

"Concede now," she told him, doing her best to make her voice firm and intimidating. She even physically lowered her throat to alter the pitch. The exalt didn't see at all unnerved, however: he stabbed forward immediately, and she only barely skipped out of the way. "It's hopeless," she pressed on, "victory is unachievable. You will fail."

"Shut up!" Chrom slashed again, followed by another narrow evasion. "You can't keep dodging forever!" he told her, swiping horizontally this time.

"I can for longer than you can keep swinging," she jumped back again. She was a trifle too slow, however, and received the exalt's fist in her face as punishment. She fell back, covering her face. The pair were removed from the rest of the fighting, their respective lines clashing just behind them. The Rose Blade began to feel her stomach churn and an icy sensation grip her chest as Exalt Chrom's shadow stretched over her.

"I wish I could say it pains me to do this," the exalt said, holding his sword over her. He thrust it down toward her stomach.

But Falchion was knocked loose from his hands and spun off in a lethally rapid circle until it stuck in the ground behind the exalt. Chrom grunted angrily and looked up for the source of the interference. His eyes narrowed a bit when he spotted it. "Exalt Chrom," a pair of dark eyes looked back into his, "You really are an incorrigible sort. You refuse to accede to my demands, you break out of my holding facility, and now... Now I find you trying to impale one of my best. Simply unacceptable. You are surely a blight on this world of ours."

"I'm a blight?!" he shouted, "What about you? You've been starting wars left and right, enveloping countries into deadly conflicts, all for what, your own sick amusement?"

The amethyst-haired man scowled, "I serve a higher purpose than you could ever know. Growing up in your lofty castles, sending men to die in your stead, you could never know true pain. Not you, not your blackhearted father, not your patronizing whore of a sister, and certainly not that little lapdog you call your daughter!"

"Is that what this has all be about?" Chrom scoffed, "You don't intimidate me. You're nothing but scum. Scum that's gotten to thinking it's a bit too big for its pond, but you're still nothing."

Nihilus's eyes were as sharp as swords. "If you've no fear," he put away the green tome in his hands and withdrew his blade, "then have at you."

"Gladly," Chrom turned to reach for Falchion, but a certain rose-haired woman was holding it up and chuckling at him. The exalt whirled back around to his other foe, "You'd disarm me and then challenge me to a duel? You really are nothing but a coward."

"Bite your tongue, you wretch," Dahlia hissed at him.

"No," Nihilus smiled, "the exalt is quite right." The amethyst-haired man dropped his sword and pulled off his cloak, flinging it to the ground. He put up his fists, "I want to enjoy this."

Chrom jolted into a fighting stance, more than a little caught off guard, but trying to convince his enemy he was prepared nonetheless, "All right then, let's go." Nihilus threw his first punch. It connected.

* * *

"Regna Ferox," Robin sighed, "somehow, it seemed I'd never see it again. It feels almost unnatural to be back."

"In fairness, we did break a few maritime laws, so our speed is a bit unnatural," Steven smiled, stowing away his wind tome.

"May the gods forgive us," Morgan rolled her eyes. The group descended the gangplank together, still marked by scars, scratches and wounds from their previous encounter, but they had made it this far. The Grandmaster looked to his children, who had worked themselves through the night to keep up the blistering pace of their newly-commandeered ship. Their labor would be vindicated by this success: Ylisstol was only a few days' march away. Something left the Grandmaster unsettled, however: "Regna Ferox was on that map, too. Do you suppose Nihilus has left it yet?"

"It's been a week since we found that damned note of his, so yes," Leo decided.

Robin nodded, "Then maybe I'll let you all go, and I'll inspect Ferox for myself."

"What?!" Anna started, "Nuh-uh. You're not going anywhere without me, buddy."

"Seems silly, daddy," Sylvia added, "Near as I can tell, you're the main event for our friend. I think he'll be disappointed if you don't show."

"Exactly," Robin smiled, "Why don't we exercise Nihilus's patience a bit?"

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard you say, pop," Leo folded his arms, "and that's sayin' something."

Steven nodded, "As much as it pains me to say so, I concur with Leo. What could such an exercise possibly stand to gain?"

The Grandmaster dipped his head, staring at the ground beneath his feet for a moment before lifting his eyes to the circle convened around him, "Nihilus wants two people: Chrom and me. If he doesn't have one of us, he won't be satisfied until he gets that one. If you all show up without me, that should be enough to throw him off. Then you can support Chrom until I arrive, hopefully with some Feroxi rebels in tow. That's when we can bring this to an end."

"Or," Inigo interjected, penetrating the circle, "and just hear me out, here—you could come with us, we could all wipe Nihilus out together, and when we've recovered sufficient strength, we can return to Regna Ferox and sort that problem when we're good and ready."

Robin smiled, "It's all right, Inigo, I get it: they're your family and your country, you don't want to wait. That's why I'm telling you to go now. In all likelihood, a strong bunch like you won't even need the help of a gray-maned codger like me. So go, take my daughter, as well as her siblings, and save your family. You have my utmost confidence."

"You..." Inigo's eyes narrowed, "I'm beginning to understand some of father's stories better now: you are stubborn beyond belief."

"He's right," heads turned to Morgan, finally joining the group, "The stupidest thing we could do is give Nihilus exactly what he wants. That's why he centered his big coup d'état on Ylisstol: he thought we'd all assemble there in short order to confront him, my dad and yours among us. Instead, we've been on the fringes, upending plan after plan of his, destroying all the threads he's established, and there's only one left to sever before he's on his own."

"I couldn't have said it better myself," the Grandmaster concluded.

"Morgan," Inigo murmured, staring at the ruby-haired girl, "All right. If you think this... insanity has some merit, I'll trust your judgement. Everyone had better be prepared, though: we'll only have one chance to do this right."

"Agreed," Robin nodded, "Anna, I think it's time for the Platinum Package."

"Eh?" the redhead pressed her finger to her lips, "Oh! That's right, the 'Platinum Package!'" Amid perplexed stares and shifting of the eyebrows, Anna produced a glittering card from a pocket at her side. She presented it to Inigo, "I've got a sister who runs a shop on the Ylisse-Ferox border, three miles west of the Longfort. Give this to her, she'll know what it means."

"Er, thank you," the prince pocketed the item.

"Well, I guess this is goodbye for now, kids," Robin folded his arms for a moment as he thought the prospect over. As he thought, he offered his hand to them, instead. Steven and Leo each took the hand and gave it one heavy shake, thanking their father. Sylvia bypassed the hand and wrapped her arms around her father, pecking him on the cheek and demanding that he be safe. Morgan stood at a safe distance and nodded to him. He reciprocated, and finally turned to Anna, who continued to stand beside him.

"I said I wasn't going anywhere without you and I meant it," she planted her heels, "You ducked me once when I was working, but I'm not gonna let that happen again."

"You're sure?" he frowned.

"Absolutely."

"Very well," he took her hand, "I can't think of a better traveling companion."

"Let's hurry."

* * *

Chrom held his arms vertically in front of his face to shield himself from a flurry of quick jabs thrown by his opponent. Nihilus shifted and aimed an uppercut beneath the new defense, which Chrom sidestepped to avoid, but the exalt was caught by a left hook almost as quickly. He fell and staggered back to his feet, ear throbbing from the hit, "How...?"

"Keep your head up," Nihilus told him, jabbing the lord in the stomach. The exalt fell to his knees again. "Or, better yet," the amethyst-haired man chuckled, "don't. You can choose to volunteer your life to me, too. Personally, I think you'll save yourself considerable agony that way."

Chrom propped his left knee up and used the momentum to aim a punch at the clairvoyant's stomach, but his foe avoided it with ease and kicked the standing exalt in the face, knocking him a few steps back. Chrom closed back in and threw a few punches on each side, but these were all easily blocked, and the last and slowest of the bunch was interrupted by a punch that made the exalt bite his tongue and filled a corner of his mouth with blood. "Y-You bastard..." he panted, wiping his bloodied lip, "how can you... move like that?"

"I am the knower of that which is unknowable, Exalt Chrom," the amethyst-haired man punched: this was blocked by Chrom, "Nothing escapes my sight. I know everything you're about to do before you do it."

"What," Chrom threw a right hook that was blocked, "a load of... pegasus sh—" A hook from the left shook his jaw and the exalt toppled again.

"Poor blind nobleman," Nihilus shook his head, "unable to see any truth looking down your nose. No matter: what you believe has no bearing on reality, if that wasn't already obvious." Chrom stood once more and attacked. His punch was caught, and the amethyst-haired man's grip tensed around it, such that a crunching noise emerged from the palm that prompted the exalt to shout. He tried to withdraw the hand, but within seconds, his opponent's other fist came forward to seize his upper arm, and the one gripping his hand relocated to his wrist. Feeling the tension and torsion applied by each, Chrom growled as his tendons bent and a sharp snap emanated from the arm. He was given a light shove to the stomach, and then the exalt stood, doubled over, clutching his limp arm, staring into the eyes of the clairvoyant before him.

"What the hell are you?" Chrom commanded.

"A man with a grievance," Nihilus seized the sapphire-haired lord by the throat and tensed the muscles in his hand again. Chrom began to sputter.

Nihilus's vision faded to white for a moment and he saw a flash of pink hair dart at him from the crowd at his side, the gleam of a sword marring his eye. Was Dahlia about to betray him? Why? No—it was...!

The clairvoyant jumped out of the way within a second of Olivia's sword slicing the air where he had been standing a moment ago. He shook his head and shrugged, "Why do people always insist on making these things difficult? You could put a hundred soldiers in front of your precious exalt and I'd kill them all to end him."

"I'm not a soldier," Olivia held her blade out; it shook as did her hands, "I'm his wife."

"That's right," Nihilus tapped his forehead, "The 'Coward Queen,' isn't that what they called you? Not in your lovely golden palaces, of course, but in the dwellings of real human beings, rather than the paper dolls you parade around in lambswool."

"I-I may be shy, yes," she choked, "b-but... I'd never be scared by you."

"I can fix that," he shut his eyes, smiling to himself.

"Don't delude yourself, cad," their heads turned as Lucina also emerged from the crowd.

* * *

Sylvia huffed, feeling her throat become hot and dry. The heat was also channeling up through her cheeks as her slowly tiring feet beat a steady rhythm in trying to keep up with her siblings. "Must we... run all the way there?" she demanded between gasps of air.

"If we wanna be there on time, yeah," Leo responded, "I'm not gonna be known as the assassin who didn't do squat while the exalt of Ylisse was murdered in his own homeland."

"What does being an assassin have to do with that?" his sister wondered.

"Nothin', strictly speaking," he answered, "but my Brotherhood, they wouldn't be happy about this if they found out I wasn't around."

"I beg your pardon, but your Brotherhood hasn't been very prolific in its duties, Leo," Steven said, "Where was all that nonsense about maintaining order and keeping power reigned in? What have they done to stop Nihilus?"

"It's different," the assassin scowled, "Neither Nihilus nor his buddies were a threat until he started antagonizing Chrom directly, and the Brotherhood thought it was over when I axed that first lunatic who overtook the capital in Nihilus's name. They're only just getting ready to act now."

"In the last moments of the struggle? How courteous of them," the silver-haired man rolled his eyes.

Leo shoved his brother, making him stumble as they ran, "Despite the extent of our reach, we're a small organization, not a country, all right? We don't have the resources to go to war, only to take out immediate threats at the most opportune moments."

"This moment is one hell of an opportunity," Morgan interjected.

"Too right," her brother nodded, "that's why I pulled some strings."

"Say what?" Sylvia rasped.

The five adolescents drew to a halt as they heard the sound of a hawk screeching overhead and several dark shadows emerge from nearby ridges. "Watch!" Morgan commanded with a stern whisper, holding her fiancé back with her hand against his chest. The others waited in silence. Leo chuckled and took a few steps forward, in spite of a few whispered protests from his siblings. "You don't get it?" he laughed at all of them. The shadowy figures began to descend the ridges, climbing down rock faces easily or simply slipping down hills nearby until they started to amass near the small group. Morgan put her hand on her sword as their obscured faces approached. Leo stopped her, "Morg, they ain't here to hurt us. This... this here's the cavalry."

"What?" she responded dumbly.

Steven began to search the faces of the men and women encircling them, which remained difficult due to the shrouds covering their eyes, "You don't mean to tell me...?"

One of the men approached Leo, leaning in closely, "C'é un problema, fratello?"

"No, nessun problema. Sono... ignaro," the assassin replied.

"What are you two saying?" Sylvia demanded.

Leo grinned, "You're not the only one who speaks other languages. It's okay, Rondine."

The man beside Leo lowered the white hood that covered his face so that the group could see his green, catlike eyes and the thinning jet-black hair that lay short and flat on his head, complimenting the robust strip of similarly-colored hair that extended down in a single, wide column from his bottom lip. He glanced at the other four people staring back at him and then nodded his head, apparently reaching some conclusion, "So... these are all your family?"

Leo shifted his head, double-checking, "Blue Boy over there is only my brother-in-law, but the rest are all related, yeah."

Rondine cocked an eyebrow, "If I'm not mistaken, the signore with the blue hair is Exalt Chrom's son, yes?"

"Quite," Inigo agreed, "May I ask who you are, precisely?"

"No," the man glared at him, "we are... fratelli to your Leo. You understand this, yes?"

"Not exactly," Morgan admitted.

"The word in the Common Tongue is 'brothers,' Rondine," Leo told him.

"Sì," the older man nodded, "we are Leo's brothers. He works for us, and, in turn, we support him. Such is the case at the moment."

Steven watched the man intensely, "That means you're Leo's Brotherhood, correct?"

Leo answered for him, "Yes... you're looking at the Ylissean branch of The Brotherhood of the White Talon."

"White Talon?" Morgan repeated, "I've heard that name before... I was trying to get ahold of an artifact and some member of theirs was protecting it... Um, I mean, uh..."

"We've all heard of them," the silver-haired man folded his arms and glared at Rondine, "Or, even if we haven't, we know of their works one way or another. Mr. Rondine's has been at this job for quite a long time, as has the rest of his organization."

"I cannot claim full responsibility," the older assassin shook his head, staring directly at Steven now, "I am only another... how do you say, wheel in the apparatus?"

"Cog in the machine," Leo corrected, "but yes, the work's not important. They're going to help us fight alongside Chrom, all right, so can we cut the questions and get a move on?"

"I suppose," Morgan decided, cupping her chin.

"She doesn't speak for the rest of us," Steven protested.

Leo shoved his brother again, "What the hell's your deal, Steve? You don't gotta like 'em, they're just here to help us do our job."

"I know," he folded his arms, "just make Mr. Rondine aware that I will be watching his movements carefully, and I will not tolerate anything external to our efforts to end Nihilus."

Rondine bowed his head and looked over at Leo, "Il curoe dell'uomo argento è appanato." Leo didn't answer, but also lowered his head.

"If you're finished insulting my brothers and sisters," Leo cracked his knuckles, "we've still got a long ways to go before we hit Ylisstol."

"Right," Morgan nodded, "we should keep moving." Leo took point as the assassins gathered behind to follow him, although Rondine ran beside him, matching his pace. The remaining quartet fell in after the young assassin, hurrying toward the border.

* * *

Lucina lunged forward with her rapier, but her foe was to nimble and the first strike missed its mark. The amesthyst-haired man gave them an insulting laugh as Olivia tried a quick sweep with her own blade that was just as easily dodged. The pair thought to attack together, but that only resulted in Nihilus stepping out of the way once more to watch the two women very nearly dig their swords into each other's throats. The pair then tried a new tactic: Lucina hurried around their foe until each woman was on the opposite side of the amethyst-haired man. He shook his head, "Ah, trying to flank me? An impossible trap in my situation. Well played." The two looked at one another in confusion, but quickly decided to lunge forward with their weapons, Olivia hesitating a second later than Lucina so that they could avoid each other if he somehow managed to avoid the assault.

As their focus was diverted, Chrom crept over to Falchion and pulled it out of the dirt with his good arm.

Nihilus was not able to avoid the attack. Rather, steel met steel as Lucina looked up to see Dahlia's blade interrupting the path to Nihilus's exposed back. Olivia had been tripped and now struggled to lift herself out of the sod. Nihilus put his boot down on her stomach. Lucina struggled to break her deadlock with the Rose Blade, but as hard as she pushed, the woman across from her seemed to be bearing down with twice her strength. Eventually, the princess was shoved backward. "D-Dammit!" she cursed. The enemy was simply too fast, how could they hope to fight on like this. If, perhaps, the entire army could face him together, they might stand a chance, but the whole of the Ylissean and Plegian militaries were busy combatting the mercenary forces. There was really no hope of a one-on-one victory against this man. Lucina's mind raced: they needed something different, a new strategy, some way of looking at the problem that made this all seem possible, but what could they do? Was there any way to even weaken a man who could see their every move?

"Is it finally sinking in?" the man shook his amethyst locks back and forth, "Your struggles are in vain."

"Th-That..." Lucina protested.

Chrom ran forward and swung Falchion at the clairvoyant while his back was turned. Nihilus stuck his foot out and tripped the exalt, who collapsed into a pile of dust, the shimmering blade falling flat beside him. "Why do you never learn?!" Nihilus shouted, putting his boot back on Olivia's stomach. He pressed down and made her groan, "You bourgeois imbeciles! You look ahead of you, but you don't use your eyes! The future is so lamentably predictable, and yet you're all blind to it. I'm not gifted or special, I don't have a curse brought on by my mother's blood, I'm no great sage wielding mystical power... unlike you all, I'm simply a man with the vision to see what will become of the world... and I protest the path I see it heading down without me!"

"You're nothing but a warmongering coward!" Lucina shouted, "Do you think I forgot the day I first saw you, all those weeks ago, when you murdered an entire civilian population? What did they do to deserve that?!"

Nihilus drove his foot down sharply, making Olivia cough. She rolled over and clutched stomach, taking deep breaths as Nihilus moved toward the sapphire-haired princess. She held out her rapier, but the amethyst-haired man caught her with a quick right hook and knocked her down. "They were in the way," he spat.

"Lord Nihilus," the Rose Blade coughed beside him. He picked his head up and glanced at her, "Don't you think we should finish our objective."

He exhaled, staring at the fallen royals for a moment, then his shoulders sagged, "Right you are, Dahlia." The clairvoyant walked over to Chrom, whose eyes barely remained open as blood had begun to run in streaks down his face. Nihilus reached past him and picked up Falchion, examining the glint of the blade in the sunlight. He sheathed the blade at his side, "This has been most amusing, Exalt Chrom, but I believe I must bid you farewell. I have a wish to make." The sapphire-haired lord reached a limp hand out toward his foe, but it fell just as quickly as he extended it. "Bind them and bring them to the castle," Nihilus ordered his lieutenant, "Once the Fire Emblem is mine, I'll begin my rule with three public executions."

"At once, milord," Dahlia complied.

"F-Father," Lucina croaked, "Why... why does he want Falchion and the Emblem? I thought... only those of our bloodline could interact with them."

"F-Falchion," he sputtered, "the blade is useless without royal blood, but... the Emblem... the Emblem was always so much more dangerous... Falchion is merely the key to retrieving the Emblem. Make no mistake, Lucina: if he gets his hands on it... our chances of ending this war... disappear."

"That's enough," Dahlia shoved his face into the dirt.

The purple-haired man entered the chamber with a grin. He pressed his palms up against the walls once more and shifted the stone, giving way to the secret entrance. Holding a torch in one hand, he brought the legendary sword up in the other and placed it into the indentation on the wall. The wall glowed with a pallid blue, then slid down and disappeared into the floor before his feet. Nihilus lofted the torch and walked down a set of stairs and through a dark, claustrophobic corridor until he arrived at the object of his desire: the shield glittered gold in the meager torchlight, radiant enough by itself, and inside it, five gemstones pulsed with vibrant colors. The clairvoyant drew near, visions flooding into his head: he could hear the shield speaking to him. It was calling out, yearning to have its power used; it glowed with an increasingly lascivious light as he approached. He saw himself hoisting the Emblem up on his arm, legions bowing before him, the faces of those he despised now dropping in his worship. Electricity coursed through the man's veins as he reached out and touched the item, chills leaving trails of goosebumps along his arms.

All of his planning.

All of the killing.

All of the pain he had endured.

The sickness he had felt.

The uncertainty, the anxiety.

The fear, the hatred.

The suffering.

And now, pure, sweet, unrepentant bliss.

Vengeance.

Retribution.

Vindication.

He picked up the shield and slipped his arm through the guard, "O mighty Naga, you whose power fills this artifact, reveal yourself to me, that I might partake of your power."

The iridescent form of the spirit of Naga suddenly materialized before him, glittering like so many sapphires, aquamarines, and emeralds as she stared back, almost perplexed by him. Without a word, the amethyst-haired man saw himself enveloped in blue flame, and he cried out, but he remained still as the flames licked at him and wound around his arms and legs. In what seemed to be only a second of intense, white-hot pain, the sensation disappeared, and darkness claimed the room.

"Be welcome, Awakener. When held against the trial of my holy fire, your will has proven to burn the stronger. Now... what do you come seeking of me?"

* * *

Robin felt a twinge whip up his spine, stopping the Grandmaster in his tracks. He felt profoundly cold all of a sudden, and his eyes narrowed as the feeling spread through his body. His wife noticed and stopped, several steps ahead, and ran back to him, supporting his stomach and back, "Baby, what's the matter? What happened?"

"Something," he regarded the sky gravely, "is very wrong."

* * *

A figure cloaked in blood red stood atop a lonely crag, purple and brown shaded as dusk began to descend upon it, and watched as the castle at Ylisstol was struck by what seemed to be a sudden flash of pure blue lightning.

"Do-or-die time, everyone."

"That's really it, huh?"

"The moment we've all been waiting for... and avoiding."

"Alpha... and Omega."


	28. Long Road to Ruin

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" the redhead was still holding her husband.

"Yes," he managed, "but we need to hurry. I'm getting a bad feeling."

"I've been having bad feelings this whole time," she muttered, "hasn't stopped me."

"I'm sorry," the Grandmaster sighed.

Anna cocked an eyebrow at him, "Huh?"

"The... silence, the disappearing act, the hours I've wasted," he listed, "I... I was given a lot of time to think about what wasn't said when I thought you were... well, at any rate, I apologize for all of it. I apologize for not being a very good husband."

"Hon," she pushed him forward as they began walking, "that's sweet, but A: this isn't the time, and B: you don't need to apologize for being you. I get it, okay? I've never once resented you or regretted my decision in all these years. So wipe that scowl off and let's wrap this business up, eh?"

He shut his eyes, "Hmph. All right, as you say."

"That's more like it," she encouraged, wrapping her hand around his, "C'mon, gimme one o' those big smiles and make fun of my hair, or something."

He laughed, "There is one thing that's always bothered me: I don't look anything like I used to, but you, you haven't changed a bit since we were kids."

"We met when I was almost twenty, you old coot," she ruffled his hair.

"Like I said, kids," he grinned back, "I mean it, though: how is it you still look exactly like yourself?"

"Anna family secret," she wagged her finger.

"Is it hair dye?" he supposed.

Her eyes widened, "Sh-Shhhh! You don't know who could be listening out here!" He laughed again.

"It was nice to see all the kids again," the Grandmaster continued in a low voice, appropos of nothing, "It's just my luck that it took a war to do that."

"Mm-hm," she mused, "Stevie's such a big boy now, isn't he? He's reminding me more and more of his father..."

"He's got a good head on his shoulders, if nothing else," her husband assented.

"Did he tell you about Sophie?"

"Of course, he writes me often enough."

"I never saw those letters."

"You never asked."

Anna frowned, "Well, what about the twins? Did you find Sylvie while she was performing?"

"No, actually, she was the one who counseled us to go to Lieben first. I'm still not sure how she knew that..."

"How about Leo? I know you have your... points of contention with him."

"Heh. Leo's fine, he's a smart boy, he just doesn't know what he believes. He wants everything to be solved by fighting because he doesn't think he's good at talking, but he can be just as convincing as his big brother if he applies himself."

"But you two are always getting into fights."

"Fights and arguments are different. Leo and I argue, which is to say I try to put his rhetoric to the test so he'll learn and maybe resolve something peacefully one day."

"He does have kind of a chip on his shoulder regarding Steve..."

"Case in point. He wants to validate himself, that's all."

Anna hesitated for a moment, sighing, but decided she might as well go through with it: "And Morgan?"

"Morgan is," he paused and selected his words, "similarly misguided. It's fine. I'm the parent, so I have to do what's right for her, even if she doesn't like it or me by extension. It's okay, I'm a big guy, I can take it."

The redhead chuckled, "Big is relative, but sure. She really is still a sweetheart in all other regards, though. She's so cute about Inigo."

"Again, as the father, the onus rests on me to take umbrage with any boy she likes. What can I say, fate has settled on the fact that she'll only ever like you."

"We proved that fate is nonsense, remember?" she jostled her husband's shoulder.

"I know," he said simply.

Anna exhaled sharply and turned her head to the sky, "It's been... a long road, hasn't it?"

"Very," Robin agreed, "Not that I'd have it any other way. I love you, Anna, and I want to be with you wherever that path ends."

"Baby..." she blushed, feeling his hand seize hers.

"Oh gods, would the two of you quit it or get a room?" a voice suddenly emerged from the plains before them.

Anna jumped in surprise before her eyes focused on the noise's source, then she shivered a little, and not because of the cold air, "Oh, it's... you."

"Tharja?" Robin cocked an eyebrow, "What in blazes are you doing all the way out here? I thought you hated the cold."

"A little reconnaissance," the dark mage sighed, "it's a long story."

"You picked a fine time," the Grandmaster continued, "as it turns out, the current Khan Regnant was installed by an anarchist named Nihilus to instigate a civil war and unite Regna Ferox against Ylisse."

"Yeah, yeah," Tharja waved her hand, "I knew all that."

The Grandmaster's jaw dropped, "You did?"

"Of course," she flipped her silky hair, "you think you're the only one capable of getting information?"

"So, why are you still here, then?" Anna demanded, somewhat hesitantly.

"I was looking for someone," the raven-haired girl smiled behind her bangs.

Anna frowned and wrapped her arm around her husband's back. Robin blushed and scratched his neck, "Look, Tharja, this whole thing about you and me... You know it's never going to work out, right?"

She frowned, too, "Yeah, I know. It's been long enough: I'm over it. Besides, Henry's proven himself... amusing."

"Good," Robin bowed, "no hard feelings, then?"

"Never," she smiled tenderly, then glared at the redhead beside him for a fraction of a second. "I do have a mind to ask, though: why are you two here?"

"An equally long story," the Grandmaster supposed, "We've been trying to stop Nihilus. The last branch of his influence is here."

"Really?" she blinked, "Hm, prompt as ever, darling."

"How fortified is the East Palace?" Anna demanded, tightening her grip.

Tharja didn't look at her, "See for yourself; it's only a few yards ahead." The raven-haired girl turned and beckoned them. The pair followed her into the deepening snow that blanketed the plain until they caught sight of the palace, alabaster, wind-blasted walls laying bare, save for the sounds of deserted flags flapping in the icy wind. Mounds of snow crept up the walls while the purplish iron gate was held shut, flecks of white decorating the bevels that dotted it, and only a small, seemingly singular orange glow emanated lowly from the windows within the palace, like a sunset localized entirely to the building.

"It looks... completely abandoned," Robin announced, stepping back.

"Yep," the Plegian nodded, "most of the Feroxi soldiers took off to aid the attack on Ylisstol."

"You know about that, too?!"

"Sure."

"Well, why haven't you gone to help?"

"Henry's taking care of it."

Robin blinked a few times and massaged his temples, "So, there won't be much to stop us if we just... barge in?"

"Not as far as I can tell," Tharja shrugged, "I'll even come with you."

"That's okay," Anna was pushing her husband forward.

"Now, Anna, let's not be hasty," he halted her, "A little extra support never hurt anything."

"Yeah," she walked up beside the pair, glaring at the redhead again, "Think of all the extra support I can provide. Wouldn't that be better?"

"First of all," Anna put her hands on her hips, "'Let's not be hasty?' I'm only on this stupid journey 'cause you decided to be hasty to begin with! Second, I don't know why you're so intent on taking this... home-wrecking stalker with us—!"

"Don't be so high and mighty, peddler," Tharja growled, "My intentions are perfectly innocent."

"You stay out of this."

"Difficult. You make me feel pretty involved with your insinuations!"

"Maybe if you'd quit stuffing yourself with my eye candy!"

"That's all he is to you, huh? Property? Something to show off? You're a merchant through and through."

"I am _not_ about to be lectured by a voodoo priestess with boundary issues!"

"Better than the insecurity you're showing right now."

"AH-HEM!" Robin cleared his throat loudly, "Is there any way we could do this when the fate of a country, if not the whole world, isn't at stake?!"

Anna caught her breath and sighed, taking a few steps toward the palace. Robin followed her and she muttered, "You got off easy this time, you curse-slinging..."

Tharja also grumbled behind her, "Don't talk to me about 'getting off easy,' you money-grubbing little—"

Robin reapplied his hand to his face and rubbed it.

* * *

The man looked over at the child with a stern scowl on his face. The boy was small and soft, almost doll-like with his reflective green eyes and feathery white hair. The hair, in particular, gave him an air of nigh-eternal youth, such that no matter how old and gnarled the face became, his father suspected, the perception of this boy would never age. It was that hair that cause the scowl on his face. "Go on, say something," he commanded.

The boy refused.

"Come on," he demanded, balling his fist and looming over the child, "You have plenty of words when I'm not around, but you clam up all of a sudden once I show up. Why's that?"

Again, the boy did not answer.

"Go on, speak up," his father's palm lightly slapped the boy's cheek. He did it again, "Say it. Say what you were saying before."

The boy remained mute.

His father slapped him again, this time leaving a red imprint on the boy's cheek. His eyes widened with surprise, and he felt a hot rush of embarrassment as tears began to flow from his eyes. "Oh, gods," his father rolled his eyes, "now you're gonna start crying? You are a real cut-up, kid."

The boy said nothing and rubbed the tears on his sleeve.

"You're pathetic," his father shoved him to the ground, "scared. A little coward is all you are. You think 'cause you're a kid I'll let you get away with talking behind my back like that? You're a snot-nosed little runt, and the only reason you're still here is because of your mother. If you weren't glued to her skirt, you'd have been outta here on your ass in no time."

The boy suddenly felt the muscles in his arms and cheeks tense, "You... you're not my real dad."

The man's face lit up, "I'm sorry... what in the seven hells was that?"

"You... can't tell me what to do," the boy was pushing himself up, "you're not my dad. My dad was a good man, you're just a... filthy, stupid drunk!"

A punch knocked the air completely out of the boy's stomach, "You impudent little shit. At least you finally grew a pair. But now... now I've got my reason."

"You can't hurt me," the boy squeaked, "my mom will never let you...!"

"I don't care what your mom thinks, it's time you learned a lesson, you little cretin," the man seized the white-haired boy and dragged him over by a cabinet. The boy was only confused and a little upset at being moved against his will, but panic overtook his senses as he saw the towering figure who had captured him pull a rusted knife out from the cabinet, its edge gleaming in the daylight. "Now, we're gonna see to it that you don't ever have a chance to bad-mouth me again!" The boy kicked and screamed in the man's muscular hold as the blade drew closer and closer to his mouth.

The pain numbed his mind. That moment seemed frozen, although he briefly recalled the moments that followed: the little pinkish lump that hit the floor, the coppery taste filling his mouth, the feeling of his eyes rolling back so far that it seemed they were going to detach from their retinas, the constant pressure still holding him... The only thing he couldn't recall was the sound of his own screaming which, for everyone else within a mile, and was sharp, shrill, and utterly piercing.

The man did not think he would be making a grave at the beginning of that day. Now, however, there was a small corpse dangling on his arm.

* * *

The trio scaled the stone walls simply: Robin gave his wife a boost and she scaled the wall, drawing back on a few family techniques she recalled, then offered her hand to her husband first and, begrudgingly, the dark mage thereafter. When they came to the front doors of the palace, they found them padlocked. Anna scoffed and simply kneeled down, brought out her tools, and set to work. In less than a minute of clicking sounds, the lock fell into the snow, the chains along with it. The Grandmaster pushed the door open and peered inside: the antechamber was empty, and past it, there were no signs of life in the central room of the palace.

The group continued in, moving slowly, either to prevent detection or out of reverence for the eerie, unbroken silence of the seemingly empty palace. They wandered in and out of rooms in this manner, scanning scuffed floors, scraped carpets, and rustled furniture, but only shadows seemed to occupy the space. "Something about this seems familiar," Robin whispered as the proceeded, "and not in a comforting way."

The walls continued to reveal nothing as the group cleared rooms on both wings of the palace, finding weapons and armor abandoned on racks and nearby floors, as well as plates with bits of food preserved but stone-cold due to the outside temperature. The search seemed entirely fruitless until Tharja brushed too closely against a bookshelf and tripped over a volume that had fallen to the floor. Her face was warmed when the Grandmaster offered her a hand getting back up, and afterward she bent over to retrieve the obstacle. Immediately, she recognized a few dark magic runes scribbled on the cover.

She flipped the tome open, seeing a myriad of dog-ears and notes hastily scribbled in the margins. Extreme fraying on one particular page drew her attention, and so she flipped to the page and began to read. Her eyes widened as she did so, "Oh."

"Something wrong?" Robin whispered.

Tharja remained silent and continued to read in astonishment for a moment before tearing her eyes away, "This... this is... ugly."

"Ugly?" the Grandmaster cocked an eyebrow.

"There is some... seriously sinister stuff in this book," she held it only with her fingertips, as if it had a foul odor, "some stuff even I'd say isn't right."

"What are you talking about?" Robin pressed.

The raven-haired girl shook her head, "Messed-up stuff. Stuff like making vessels of the dead."

"What? But I thought you said dark magic couldn't raise the dead."

"It can't, in the way that you can't bring a person back to life with all their memories and personality intact, but giving animation to lifeless bones and skin isn't impossible... It's still something that's frowned upon. Something a self-respecting dark mage would never do."

"Horrible."

"Definitely. There's a lot of similarly underhanded and vile material in this thing... emotional manipulation, memory manipulation, alteration of perception..." Eventually, the dark mage snapped the volume shut and shivered a bit, "This kind of magic doesn't belong in this world. I'm gonna burn this thing."

"Do what you must," Robin nodded, "Anna, let's take a look at the throne room, huh?" She nodded.

When the pair approached the throne room, they finally spotted the source of the orange glow that had kept the palace lit upon their arrival. Wrapped in an inky black cloak, a wrinkled man with a sharp nose, sharp eyes, and disheveled chrome-colored hair leered back at them, "Intruders! Who are you, and how did you get in here?"

"I'm a locksmith," Anna blinked, "and... I'm a locksmith."

"You amuse yourselves at my expense, you wretches?!" he stood, fuming, "I'll tear the flesh from your bones! I'll carve you to pieces!"

"I don't have time for petty quarrels," Robin folded his arm, "Are you the mysterious and reclusive Khan Vlasis, perchance?"

The man cackled sickeningly, coughing as his old bones creaked, "In a way, yes, I suppose I am."

"Speak sense," the Grandmaster commanded.

"Imbecile," the man grunted back, "you want to see the East-Khan? Here! Look!"

A bright amethyst-colored flash blinded Anna and Robin momentarily, but when they looked back, they saw a small frame begin to take shape in the light. As the flash faded, a boy with snow-white hair and forest-green eyes was smiling innocently back at them. He bowed.

Robin did the same and Anna curtseyed, "Do I address Khan Vlasis, Khan Regnant of Ferox?"

The boy nodded.

"You're quite young for your position," Robin noted.

The boy shrugged.

"In any case, I've come to ask you to abandon your conflict with your western brethren and Ylisse. My name is Robin, and I hail from Ylisse. Ylisstol, Ylisse's capital is currently under siege by a vagabond named Nihilus who seeks anarchy across the whole realm. Supporting his desires will bring ruin unto all of us."

The boy listened to the response, nodded solemnly, and then offered up his hands, twisting them together.

"Will you not speak to me, sir khan?"

The boy bowed his head and shook it. He cupped his palm over his mouth.

"Oh, you're a mute? Apologies, I wasn't aware."

The boy shook his head again and bowed cordially.

"Vlasis," the old man in the center of the room caught his attention, "now that our friend is done giving his pitch, shall we give him our answer?"

The boy's eyebrows creased as he glanced back at the Grandmaster.

"What does he mean?" Robin wondered.

"Vlasis," the old man smiled and waved his index finger, "kill these intruders!"

"What?!" Robin took a step back.

The boy looked at the floor and sighed. When he lifted his gaze again, he raised his fists.

"No," Robin shook his head, "I refuse to fight an unarmed child. And shame on you for trying to force him, you old wretch."

The chrome-haired man grinned broadly, "You misunderstand your circumstances, intruder... You don't have a choice."

Robin looked back to the boy, who was now within inches of his face. With immense surprise, Robin watched as the boy's fingers, pointed like a dagger, dug into his flesh and amassed purple, acidic bubbles to accompany a sudden, searing pain that hit the Grandmaster's gut. He shouted and reeled back, staring and panting at the boy. The youth simply shook his snow-white hair along with the rest of his head and jumped closer, bursting forth in a similar cloud of purplish gas. "What in Naga's name...?" Robin gawked. He dodged a few more attacks from the boy.

The old man shouted, "Don't hold back, you little cretin, or I'll reduce the spell so you can feel it again!"

Vlasis's eyes widened intensely and he stormed at the Grandmaster, who continued to narrowly avoid the quick swipes. Eventually, with remorse, he drew his sword, aimed it at the boy's arm, and lopped it off in one clean stroke. They both watched the limb fall to the floor, but no blood spilled. Instantly, the limb evaporated into purplish smoke, and a similar film extended from the boy's arm, revealing a perfect copy of the amputated arm. "What?!" Robin repeated, finding himself gawking again."

"I knew it," Tharja walked through the doorway to the throne room, "I hope you'll forgive my stopping to spy a little, but now I've got a fix on you, you old monster."

The man in the center of the room turned, "Do you address me, girl?"

"Yeah, you," she sneered, "You're the one who wrote that creepy volume that was hidden on the shelf, right? You're the 'Twisted Sage,' Datura?"

"Indeed," he smiled broadly.

"Robin," the dark mage turned to him, seeing that he was still dodging the boy's attacks and swiping at him with his blade, "you can't kill that boy, he's already dead."

"But..." The Grandmaster hesitated, avoiding another strike, "he's the east-khan..."

"Exactly," she drew closer, "he's a hollow shell with a pretty face set up as a vessel to be used for rulership by a sick, twisted mind." The man in the center of the room cackled loudly.

"So what do we do?" Anna demanded.

"As if there's a question," Tharja rolled her eyes, "kill that scum."

Anna needed no further instruction, running at the kneeling man. He tossed her away with an explosion of violet magic, however. The redhead got back to her feet and glared at Tharja, who shrugged innocently before opening a dark magic tome of her own.

"You little savages can't kill me!" Datura shouted, "I've conquered death itself! I'm the reaper! You think you can surmount that?!"

"Gods, your voice makes me ill," Tharja chanted and a series of incantations causing black rivulets to emerge from the ground around the old man. He laughed and cast a spell of his own, breaking them. "Damn," Tharja sighed. Anna ran at him again but was thwarted similarly. Robin continued to step out of the way of Vlasis's attacks while continuing to stab and hack at the strange entity without apparent effect.

"This isn't working!" Robin decided, slicing right through his opponent's torso, "Hey, both of you!" The two women turned their heads, "Attack him together already!"

The pair exchanged glances and nodded. Tharja opened up her tome and moved her hand as Anna darted forward, brandishing her sword.

"Useless!" Datura cried, aiming a strike of purple lightning at her. Tharja frowned and shifted quickly, opening a black rift that absorbed the attack and shielded the merchant.

Sweating, Anna looked back. "Just go, you idiot!" Tharja commanded, redirecting her attention. The redhead nodded dutifully and readied her sword again. The dark mage cast a sigil that wrapped around her enemy and bound him for a moment, and Anna used the time to surge forward, slicing at his head. The prepared Twisted Sage quickly invoked a shadowy saber that redirected the attack to his chest, only leaving a cut along his flank, before he broke Tharja's spell and snared the redhead in a similar fashion, choking her in a void of swirling black smoke.

Robin took notice, hopping away from Vlasis, and pulled a red tome out of his cloak quickly. Concentrating, he directed a fireball at the Twisted Sage, who blocked the attack, only for Tharja to catch him off-guard with a concentrated, explosive burst of violet light, knocking the old man to his feet. Anna fell to her knees, but waited, panting, only a second before realizing what was required of her. She leapt over to the Twisted Sage with breakneck speed and planted her sword in his chest. Then, for good measure, as he started and coughed, withdrew it and cut his throat, too.

"Now!" Tharja commanded, looking in Robin's direction. Robin frowned and brought up his sword, allowing the white-haired boy to approach, then dragged the blade across the boy's chest in a blink, and then proceeded to slash at each leg, each arm, twice more across the torso, and, finally, cut cleanly through the neck. The boy's eyes remained widened with surprise as the head fell and rolled along into the pile of ribbons, which all slowly evaporated. For a moment, Robin thought, even if he was only convincing himself, he swore he saw the face smile.

Panting, the Grandmaster fell onto his backside and breathed heavily for a moment. Tharja knelt down in repose, too. Anna lifted herself from the Twisted Sage's body and slowly trudged over to her husband, where she sat down and leaned on his shoulder, also breathing heavily, her clothes stained with blood.

"Well," Robin said between gasps, "that's the last tributary to this stream. Our next target... will be the big man himself."

Somehow, it didn't register as much of a comfort.

* * *

Dahlia stalked over the collapsed forms of the Ylissean Royalty, watching and listening as the Ylissean and Plegian armies clashed that of Ferox and their own personal militants. The fever of metal and voice crashing against each other overwhelming the battlefield began to make her stomach churn, and she turned from the dreadful noise to see something approaching on the horizon. Snapping her fingers, the Rose Blade drew a collection of mercenaries over to surround her. She sent them forward to investigate the approaching group, but felt the hair on the back of her neck bristle as she recognized the faces therein. She stepped forward and confronted the party, "You. I know who you all are."

"And you haven't attacked us yet," Steven observed, "I hope this means you're willing to negotiate."

Dahlia scoffed, and the assembled mercenaries laughed, pointing their swords, "Children of Grandmaster Robin... you truly have no idea what you're up against, do you?"

Leo smiled, "Miss, you're the one without a clue who you're dealing with, I promise you."

"Is that right?" she sneered, pointing her sword at his throat, "Please, enlighten me."

"Okay," Leo shrugged. He lifted his fist and whistled, mimicking a bird call.

Dahlia searched the skies with amusement, "And that was...?"

"Wait for it," the assassin grinned.

"I don't appreciate your being coy."

"No, no, hold on."

Suddenly, an eagle screeched overheard. Dahlia searched for it, her eyes meeting with the sun. Suddenly, she heard a thud beside her. The Rose Blade looked down to see a white-and-red cloaked figure kneeling next to the corpse of one of the men beside her. "What?!" she blurted. Suddenly, the noise repeated itself like a horrible chorus as shadows of the same figure descended on the battlefield, eliminating her guard and obliterating the back line of the mercenary-Feroxi as they appeared from hilltops or shadows launching out and swallowing up the fighters. "W-What?!" Dahlia repeated dumbly, staring at the assassin in the salmon-colored cloak before her.

"I told you," he shrugged. He produced a knife and leapt for the woman's throat. She had the sense to move just in time: he stabbed into the thick leather of her collar, though the knife drove all the way through and superficially pierced the artery by her throat, drawing a steady trickle of blood. She shouted in horror and fled, shoving the assassin back and kicking dust in his face as she tore off.

"We have to go after her," Morgan insisted.

"No," Leo shook his head, "Let the crazed beast corner itself. We have bigger fish to fry."

The group took a look at the enemy army, which was quickly breaking rank as assassins, white cloaks showing, wound into the crowd, reaching their arms around armored units, pulling the helms off, stabbing the throats and throwing them aside, or pulling down mounted troops and stabbing them similarly. Troops with neither armor nor mounts stood no chance. "Those are the bigger fish?" Sylvia wondered.

A figure dressed in crimson emerged from a nearby hillside, "Yes, they are."

The group all turned to face the figure. Inigo was the only one who spoke, "Who are you?"

The figure bowed its head, "I cannot say, though my identity is of no consequence to you. I will tell you, however, that you should tend to your family, prince."

Inigo blinked, then looked to the ground to find his mother, father, and sister all collapsed. "Oh, gods!" he shouted, shaking them, "Mother, Father, Lucy! Are you all right?"

Chrom groaned, "I... Inigo? Is that... you?"

"Yes, it's me, father," the prince said softly.

"Thank Naga," the exalt breathed, "listen... we'll be fine... you have to stop this..."

"I know," he clenched his fist.

"Be careful," Chrom warned him, "he... Nihilus... he may already have the Emblem."

Inigo swallowed, "Very well. I will stop him regardless."

"I know you will," his father wheezed, "just... stay... safe."

"Yes, father," the prince clasped his hand.

"The rest of you," the crimson-hooded figure commanded, "You mustn't enter that palace until your father returns, it will spell certain death."

"I knew you'd come, somehow," Leo said, staring at the figure, "Are you a brother? You must be."

"I am indeed a brother, among other things," replied the figure.

"You sound... different," Steven charged, "I think the time for mysteries is ended. Just who are you, exactly?"

"You are wrong," the figure protested, "it is irrelevant."

"You came to me, too," Sylvia came forward, "about going to Lieben, and finding my father, you sounded different then, too... what's going on? How do you keep finding us, how do you know when our father is going to arrive?"

"Unless..." Morgan began to suppose.

"Are you certain you want to go down that road?" the figure cautioned, "Once this is known, there will be no avoiding it."

The silver-haired man nodded, "Yes, I think I've got it all put together now. All the pieces are finally assembled. You... the Crimson Hood, or was it Scarlet Hood? You're in remarkably good condition for your age, considering the stories from the Valmese campaign. Something about your presence doesn't add up; your very identity is impossible, not to mention the variations in voice and stature I've noticed, the ability to appear wherever you desire... unless..."

Leo craned his neck, "You're not sayin'..."

"The one who calls himself 'Crimson Hood...'" the orator continued, "You must be... not you. Not one, a collective."

A figure dressed in clothing that mirrored the figure standing before the group hopped out from behind a rock, applauding, "Very perceptive, very perceptive indeed."

Another, in the same outfit leapt down from on high, "Smart boy."

One more revealed itself from within the same shadow as the first, "I'm glad someone finally figured it out."

Finally, a fifth skidded down the same hill from which the remainder had emerged, "Good, maybe we can wrap this charade up."

"So then, we know that who 'you' are extends to more than one person," Steven continued, "but your identities are still a mystery. Although I'm beginning to have my suspicions."

Morgan felt her heart shudder, "Steve... what are you getting at? Do you know something?"

"I don't know it for a fact," he shook his head, "but having read through classified accounts of father's battles, I do have one supposition that alleviates these contradictions."

"You think it's... like then?" Morgan wondered aloud, recalling her own perusal of those histories.

"Indeed," the orator grinned, "There's only one conclusion: you all are us, aren't you? From the future."

The Crimson Hoods lowered their guises for the first time, showing, from left to right, a silver-haired man with a hard jaw but soft eyes and smooth lips; a woman with chestnut hair, teary, sapphire eyes and a periwinkle scarf; a man with auburn hair, a scar across his nose, an emblem pinned to his chest, and an array of feathers under his salmon-colored cloak; a redheaded woman with equally red eyes, her hair done up in a signature ponytail and her index finger resting on her chin; and a shorter woman, also with ruby hair that was long and curly and rolled down her back, who sported a particular purplish tactician's cloak under her disguise. All of the figures were beaming smiles back at their counterparts.

The older silver-haired man shook his head and sighed, "Ah, look at those stupefied faces... Were we ever so young?"


	29. The Thunder Rolls

"So... help me wrap my head around this," Morgan demanded, pressing her palm to her temple in an apparent effort to do just that.

"What's not to understand?" the older vision of her youngest brother answered, "We're you guys, just from the future."

"But... why? How?" she insisted.

"There are forces at work in your heritage you know nothing about, my dear girl," the older silver-haired man replied.

"And as for why," the future Sylvia added, "Isn't it kind of obvious?"

"But... the disguises...?" the young redhead protested.

The future Anna nodded, "We had to keep things under wraps. Altering the future too much could be dangerous. Plus, it could be upsetting to the current timeline versions of ourselves... id est, you guys."

"Wait a moment," the younger Steven commanded, "do you mean to tell me you're our... their mother? If you came back, why not their Robin? I mean, he'd be old by now, no doubt, but he'd be an indispensable ally."

The Anna shook her head, "Unfortunately, that's not quite the case, kiddo. I'm nobody's mom here, just an aunt. I'm afraid their father... didn't quite make it."

"Father died of a terrible illness when my Sylvia, Leo, and Morgan were still practically tots," the older Steven elaborated.

"And your mother?" Morgan's eyes went wide.

"Died in childbirth," the other Morgan spoke up, "Giving birth to me, in case that wasn't obvious." The future Leo adjusted his stance, flicking an eye over at his baby sister.

"But then," the present Leo interjected, "how'd they live this long? Unless you guys..."

"We've always been on the fringes," the older Steven smiled, "Every step of the way, keeping folks alive, preventing crucial mistakes that led to the ruin of our world."

"So Nihilus won in your future?" Sylvia supposed.

"Indeed," the future Steven folded his arms, "Most governments were eventually overtaken by his forces. People became downright animalistic, every man scrounging and fighting for everything he could claim. The strong victimizing the weak; assault, murder, and... crimes much worse became commonplace. The anarchy was worldwide, such that no organization could ever hope to cull it. The world became a place wherein people can and do take whatever they want... whatever they want. In short, Nihilus got his wish."

"So... all this time," Steven breathed.

"It's been us," the future Leo nodded, "bailing you outta your jams, putting people on the right paths... Of course, some of this is becoming unknown territory; we can't account for everything, but I'd say we did a bang-up job of fixing things before we set the stage."

"And now?" Morgan wondered.

"Now it's time to bring this to an end," her future counterpart provided, "We'll help you finish this fight and retake the capitol."

"What about Nihilus?" Leo asked, "I thought gutting him was the whole point o' your coming back."

"Not quite," the future Steven shook his head, "There were a lot of things we wanted to fix. But for Nihilus... well, we need your father, suffice it to say."

"You're talking about the Emblem, right?" Inigo suddenly piped up, entering the conversation. The future Morgan's eyes widened and she turned her head.

"What?" the future Leo faced him, "Who are you?"

"Inigo," he answered, "Chrom and Olivia's son, Lucina's sister."

"Ah," the assassin nodded, "sorry, uh... we never met."

"In any case, you're correct," said the future Steven, "The power of Naga's divine protection... Only father—er, Robin stands a chance against it."

"Why would that be?" the present Steven wondered.

His counterpart smirked, "I think it'd be better to let you have that conversation between yourselves. For now, we need to focus on the castle itself."

Leo turned his head to see the assassins still swarming the coalition of mercenaries and Feroxi. Nodding, he looked to the castle next, seeing a sea of soldiers begin to pour out from within. The soldiers were heavily armored, the hulking metal clanking as they filed out. "About that," the assassin said, "You said you're gonna help fight? How? I mean, you guys have gotta be almost as old as mom and dad by now. You especially, other Steve."

The older silver-haired man smiled and folded his arms, "Oh, arrogant, impetuous Leo. You're just as I remember you. Allow me to show you a little something about age."

Leo opened his mouth to offer a retort, but the present version of his older brother tapped him on the shoulder and he caught a look from his own future counterpart, who shook his head.

The older silver-haired man strode out in front of the group and sighed, moving a lock of hair out of his face. He eyed the guards sprinting out of the gates and pulled a scarlet tome out of his coat pocket. Dahlia emerged from the crowd stepping out of the castle and glared at him across the plain. She scowled, baring her teeth. The lines on her forehead creased as she shouted, "Attention! First one to bring me that man's head gets fifty thousand gold!" Jubilant shouts came from the mercenaries, who began to rush forward.

"Is he going to do something?" Leo demanded.

The future Steven raised the tome to eye level and flipped it open. He flicked out two fingers on his free hand, and a spark emerged just above their tips.

The group concentrated silently on him, save Leo, who continued to ask, "What's he gonna do with such a tiny flame?"

The silver-haired man watched the mercenaries charge, slowly opening and lowering his palm as the flames formed a ball in his hand. He shut his eyes, letting the ball grow larger.

"Hey, do you have cotton in your ears, old man?!" Leo shouted, "Those guys are gonna be breathing down your neck any second!"

The future Steven exhaled loudly. He gradually raised the ball, which continued to grow and emit an amber glow that warmed the lifeless ground beneath him. He opened his eyes and the ball sparked quickly, doubling in size suddenly amidst the flash. Flames licked up the sides of the massive orb, perched delicately atop the orator's upraised palm.

The residual heat radiated onto the group behind him, who began to sweat. "Hell's bells, that's hot," noted Leo.

"That's some impressive magic," the present Steven remarked, wiping his forehead, "Could it be...?"

The future Steven lifted his arm a bit higher and then swung it down. The ball of flame descended onto the mercenaries who were rushing him. Most of them screamed and skidded to a halt, fleeing in the other direction as they saw the flames picking up speed through the air. The timing had been precise, however: none of the advancing troops were able to evade the the descending fireball. Those on the fringes were set aflame, and those within the radius of the ball were enveloped by its light, becoming black shadows for an instant before they vanished. The ball shook the ground that it collided with, setting off a swirl of powerful gales and tossing debris everywhere as it exploded. The family and soldiers on both sides of the field turned and held their arms in front of their faces to brace themselves as the detonation shook them and dug their heels into the dirt as they were pushed back.

Gradually, the force died down, and both present and future children looked out to where Steven had been standing. He remained still, dropping the tome from his hand as it burned up. "Check," the silver-haired man declared, dropping both arms to his sides.

* * *

Somehow, despite the burning in his throat and muscles, Robin found himself still moving forward. He, Tharja, and Anna had all purchased a trio of horses from one of Anna's sisters who they encountered several miles north of the Longfort (their Anna had chided her sister for not offering them up for free, but had conceded to the rationale that a merchant had to be able to turn a profit, even on the brink of world war). Robin despised the fact that his business was not ended, but justified it on the grounds that he was hurrying himself so as to meet up with his children, and to put this whole ugly mess to an end. Suddenly, a dot of orange on the horizon caught his attention. His eyes widened as it crashed into the ground.

"Uh," Anna piped up, "So, I'm not an expert on magic or natural phenomena... but whatever that is, I can feel it from here. That's probably not a good thing, is it?"

"Probably," Robin agreed. At once, Robin heard a sound from several feet ahead. He noticed a cottage on the horizon and heard a voice calling from it. A voice, he decided, that sounded distinctly familiar. "Anna, Tharja," he beckoned, "we need to check that out."

Anna frowned, "You can't be serious. Robin, our kids, for Naga's sake—"

"I know," he huffed, "I know, but, that voice... I'm sure it can only be one man."

The Grandmaster's horse came to a halt in front of the cottage and he leapt off it, bursting inside. He was both throttled and perfectly unsurprised by what he saw: Lon'qu was on an armchair, nursing a wound in his stomach, which had been bandaged. "Lon'qu!" he blurted.

"You?" the west-khan blinked a few times, "Hah. Somehow, I thought... No, there can be no such thing as fate. Still, it's good I was discovered by someone I can trust."

"We don't have a lot of time—"

"Indeed, we don't. That bastard Khan Regnant, or one of his men—"

"Way ahead of you, trust me. We'll get you somewhere safe, Lon'qu. Where's Panne?"

The west-khan dropped his eyes to the floor.

"Really? Damn. I can't adequately convey my sympathies, Lon'qu."

"Don't bother. She knew what she was doing, that fool woman... how dare she sacrifice herself..."

"I'll be happy to help you make arrangements, but right now we're in the middle of an even bigger threat."

"Is that so? Heh, then leave me. I'm no good to anyone like this."

"Not at all, your country is going to need a new Khan Regnant once this all blows over. Something tells me you'll he first in line."

"You don't understand, the easterners..."

"Lon'qu, we will have plenty of time to discuss this later, but right now I just need you to listen. I'm going to send you back to Ferox. Do what you can to keep people calm and safe; they're going to need you."

"F-Fine," he grunted, "but keep me apprised of things."

"Of course," Robin nodded, "I think you'll be getting plenty of news by the time you get back."

Robin exited the cottage and waved for Tharja, who wandered over straight away, "Yes?"

"I need you to take our friend back home to Regna Ferox, the west palace. On the double."

"B-But..."

"Tharja, I have exactly zero time for deliberation on this," he insisted.

"Fine, fine," she sighed, cocking an eyebrow, "Try to calm down, the extra stress isn't good for you."

Robin blinked a few times, his face grave, "There are so many reasons why it is impossible for me to calm down, and I'd really like to yell at you for that, but I'm just gonna to insist that you hurry."

"Oh...kay?"

"Don't wait up," he threw out, climbing back on his horse. He reared the animal and began speeding along the open plain again. Anna followed shortly after.

"Not particularly considerate of him," the dark mage muttered to herself, walking into the cottage, "Wonder what got up his—ack!"

Lon'qu lifted his head to the noise and saw the woman with raven-black hair scowling at him.

"Oh gods, it's you."

* * *

The Legacy Shepherds had already gone through their second wind. In fact, between the intervals of fighting, losing, and rallying, it could be reasonably expected that they were on the fourth or fifth wind by now. At this point, the exhausted parents had fewer reservations about allowing their children to hit the front lines of their enemies, who pressed on in spite of overwhelming odds. Cynthia and Owain had given up on their posing and now satisfied themselves by simply swinging their weapons in banal fashion as wave after wave of enemies met them. They panted profusely.

Kjelle was furious at the enemy for having made numerous small dents and chips in her armor. Sadly, she lacked the verve to justly repay them, bunched up with Brady and Severa. Noire had eventually descended into the group along with her father and the Plegian forces, but now she only trained her bow to keep advancing troops away from Nah, who had collapsed behind her. Yarne continued to wait in the very back, behind the other children's parents and the assembled Ylissean and Plegian forces, the emotion draining from him with each rattle of a saber.

The adults who had lost spouses in Dahlia's brief but devastating assault fought with marked lividity to recover the bodies; Cynthia and Owain collaborated to recover both of Cynthia's parents, part of a reason for the decline in spirit on her part.

The rush of the White Talon assassins had helped significantly, but had only served to intensify the confusion: units with no distinct markings or coloration were attacking one another wildly, bringing down anyone who got close, not having time to check the status of their relationship. The fighting had gone on all day, and somehow, there was still no end in sight. Troops were tired, indescribably tired, cold, and losing hope that their struggle would end in any manner that was not their death.

Chrom and Lucina found themselves gradually regaining their footing as they saw Inigo and both versions of Robin's family take off toward the castle. Despite his arm hanging limply at his side, Chrom glanced at his daughter and nodded, "Lucina... do you...?"

"We have to try," she agreed.

"Right," he bowed his head, taking a breath, "Okay. We can do this. But... someone should take care of your mother." The exalt looked to the ground, seeing his wife collapsed in a pile of sod, clutching her stomach and oscillating between states of consciousness.

At that moment, as if on cue, Stahl broke through the fighting and jogged over to the Ylissean royal family, hair matted to his head by sweat. "M-Milord," he saluted, "I saw... what happened. I... only wish... I could have... done something."

"You were fighting to protect the lives of your countrymen," Chrom winced, "That's all I can ask. But... if you could provide us one more service... watch over Olivia, all right?"

"Of course," the viridian knight bowed, "but... I have to suggest you... don't go after the insurgents, milord... too dangerous."

"Stahl," the exalt stared at him.

He relented, "I know. Just trying to do my job."

"Your admirable service is duly appreciated, Stahl," Lucina assured him, "Now, father?"

"Right," they set their sights on the castle.

* * *

"Dahlia," Nihilus announced, stepping out of the darkened chamber and allowing the stone wall to shut behind him.

The Rose Blade stood ready, "Milord. May I presume your success?"

He extended his arm and presented the shield, each of the five gems on it gleaming brilliantly. The amethyst-haired man clenched his fist, "Everything has gone... according to plan."

"Well-times news, sir," the rose-haired woman bowed, "Unfortunately, I must report that interlopers are approaching. I was regrettably unable to halt them, and they will be upon us any moment."

Nihilus shut his eyes and sighed, "Very well. I suppose it won't hurt to exercise myself a bit." The clairvoyant proceeded toward the main hall of the castle, Dahlia following closely by his side. They arrived in time to hear a clamor of footsteps outside the tall metal doors. In a moment, those doors opened, and both present and future families of the Grandmaster entered. Nihilus paused a moment and scrutinized them, "What is this...? Do you have twins?"

"We're mirror images of the children you see," the future Steven announced, "Aged more than a decade. We come from a world that was ruined by your selfishness, and so we stand ready to prevent your arrogance and avarice from inciting the same effect."

The amethyst-haired man leaned his head back and laughed loudly for several seconds, "I do apologize, but you must understand how ridiculous that all sounds."

The future Leo cracked his knuckles, "Believe whatever you want, all that matters is that this ends with you goin' down."

Nihilus smirked, "Hm. That's almost even more amusing. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, travelers from another time, but if stopping me was your goal, you're already too late. I have the emblem, and my wish for absolute power has been granted. See now that I am a god."

"You're a snot-nosed kid with a monstrously bloated sense of self-worth," the present Leo quipped.

Nihilus smiled, "You first."

"Bring it," the assassin settled into a fighting stance. As soon as he uttered the words, he saw a flash and felt a fist in his stomach. He looked down to see the amethyst-haired man striking him dead in the center of his gut. Assailed by the pain of several such strikes at once, and in spite of himself, Leo fell to the floor. The remainder of the group tensed their fists and jaws.

"Now, imagine what I could do with a sword," the clairvoyant grinned. He pulled a blade out and scanned the room before his eyes locked on the Anna that stood with the group, "You... you're his beloved, aren't you? You wormed your way out of trouble back in Lieben, but you can't escape me now!"

She shook her head, "The person you're talking about isn't here. I'm... a ghost of her ghost."

Nihilus rolled his eyes, "Whatever you are, you're about to fall like all the rest." In a similar fashion, there was a gleam, and the clairvoyant had poised his blade right along the neck of the redhead. She managed to block the attack with her upraised sword at the very last possible instant, however.

The younger Steven shouted, "What are we all standing around for? Attack him en masse!" The group acceded and charged the amethyst-haired man. Flashes lit up the room as he sequentially subdued all their attacks: he blocked an overhead strike from the present Steven, kicking him away, launched into a front kick on the future Sylvia, rolled back and elbowed the future Leo, ducked under a swipe from the present Morgan, punched the present Sylvia in the face, and swept out the feet of the present Leo until there was nothing standing between him and the Anna of the future.

Her hands shook as he walked forward, "See? Nothing gets away from me now. These eyes of mine can see everything, and what I see for you... is a very short, painful existence."

She leapt at him, trying to slash at his midsection, but he guarded with his own blade and headbutted the woman before her momentum could stop. While she was disoriented, he punched her in the face, reinforced by the pommel of his sword, then he drew the blade across her chest horizontally. Then again, in a diagonal fashion. Then again, in a vertical manner. He kicked the bleeding corpse to the floor, "Now you can be a damn ghost."

"Bastard!" the future Steven charged him.

The strike was blocked. Nihilus waved his finger, "Tut tut. So rash, and here I was led to believe that you were the smart one."

"I am," the present Steven answered, lobbing a fireball at the opponent. The amethyst-haired man ducked the flames and almost sent the future orator into the blaze, but settled for tossing the older man to the floor. When he was satisfied, he took aim at the younger man and delivered a quick slash. This was impeded by the present Leo while his future counterpart loosed an arrow at the clairvoyant's back. Nihilus spun around in a flash, caught the arrow, and snapped it. He kicked the young assassin from behind and took his next swing at his older counterpart. Said counterpart was quickly rescued by the future Sylvia, who Nihilus spotted lowering her staff when his target disappeared in a flash of light.

"You delay the inevitable," he chuckled, "you can't keep dodging forever." He charged after Sylvia, but was restrained by the future Morgan. Present Morgan and Leo both took his momentary falter as an opportunity to strike together, but he managed to evade both strikes. He ducked and punched Morgan in the stomach, stealing her sword, and cut Leo along his knee as well as the future Morgan along her arms. His target had been her head, but she had managed to brace herself in time.

The future Leo fired several more arrows at the clairvoyant, who avoided them easily. While he was distracted, the younger silver-haired man loosed a wind spell in an effort to knock him off-balance. The endeavor failed, as he simply skipped out of the attack's range. "You're wasting your time!" he shouted, "We can play this game all day, but I'll kill all of you eventually! You can't defeat me! You're accomplishing nothing but stalling your own deaths!"

"We know!" the future Steven shouted, sending a trail of lightning arcing at the clairvoyant.

He only narrowly avoided the attack, "What the devil do you mean you 'know?'"

"You mean you haven't figured it out yet?" the future Leo laughed, "For a clairvoyant, you're a pretty short-sighted little idiot, aren't'cha?"

"Watch your mouth, cretin," he hissed, "I don't think those words would look very good on a headstone."

The future Morgan giggled, "You talk too much. I guess I can understand, though, since you're trying to avoid the one thing that scares you most..."

"What the hell are you on about?!" he demanded, gritting his teeth.

The future Steven pointed his sword, "Your undoing is on his way. All we have to do is make enough time."

Nihilus's eyes shrank, "No... you don't mean... Ha! You honestly think your dolt of a father stands a chance of killing me?"

"You must, seeing as how you led him here so you could trap and kill him," the future Morgan replied. The clairvoyant's jaw tensed. "What?" the redhead shrugged, "We're from the future. We know everything you've done and everything you're going to do."

"No..."

"You thought your plans were so well laid-out... Admittedly, without us, things would be pretty bad."

"No...!"

"But... Did you ever get the sense that something just wasn't right? Like you were always just a few seconds shy of getting things right?"

"No!"

"It's all led up to this, Nihilus! For every year you've been operating, we've been there sabotaging just as meticulously! And now... Haha! I feel so giddy watching the look on your face as it comes to a head! Now, your one and only weakness is headed right for you, and there's no stopping him!"

"Dahlia, get outside! Nothing human passes those doors unless it's in pieces! I'm going to extirpate these scum before I completely lose my head!"

"Face it, Nihilus... All you've ever 'seen' is just what we wanted you to see!"

* * *

A steady rain had begun to fall and pelt Robin and Anna in the face as they rode upon the darkening ground surrounding the Ylissean capitol. The pair hadn't exchanged a word since leaving Lon'qu, but as they drew near to the imposing pallor of the castle, reinforced by the indigo darkness poured down upon them by the black clouds above, their eyes met, wide and empathetic. They rode around the fighting and drew their steeds to a halt at the castle gates to see the Rose Blade standing outside, evidently awaiting them. The pair dismounted, and Robin looked closely at the girl, "I've seen you before... your his confidante, aren't you?"

"Don't presume to know me, you loathsome man," she scoffed, "I have no words for you."

"Yeah, I remember you, too," Anna recalled, "Didn't your boss man practically send you to die back in Lieben?"

"Hardly. If anything, your duplicity was almost the more immediate cause of my demise, and yet here I remain."

"Listen," Robin pleaded, "you seem like a smart girl, so maybe, unlike the rest of th lunatics in your boss's employ, you'll actually pay attention when I tell you he's using you. He doesn't really care about any of you, he just wants the world to function the way he wants."

"You're an idiot if you think such empty words will persuade me," she answered, "I believe in my master's ideals, and I know I'm not being taken advantage of. I happen to know that Lord Nihilus cares especially for me."

"Honey," Anna cooed, "I've heard this song and dance before, trust me. I know you think he cares, but he's just good at telling you what you want to hear. It's time you woke up. Come on, make this easy on all of us."

"Enough!" the Rose Blade shouted, "I won't hear any more of your slander! Lord Nihilus saved me from a meaningless, horrible existence! Without him, my life would be nothing! Lord Nihilus is everything I aspire to be! He is everything that I desire to see in the world! And you are his enemies! As such, I will bring you to your knees!"

"It's always the hard way," Robin began to draw his sword, but before he could, he was knocked off-balance. The Rose Blade struck him, cutting his arm before Anna intervened and distracted her. "F-Fast..." Robin sputtered.

Dahlia attempted a series of quick swipes, but Anna parried them all, "Hah! I may not be as tough as some folks, but if you think you can beat me in terms of raw speed, you're gonna be disappointed."

Dahlia backed off with a frustrated grunt, then shifted her focus. She surged after Robin again, who held up his sword to guard, but was surprised to suddenly be struck in the back. He turned to block in that direction instead, but was flanked from his left. The Grandmaster's eyes moved rapidly: he couldn't track this woman down! She cut him again before Anna stepped in once more, halting the next attack. "Out of the way!" the Rose Blade demanded, "I don't care about you, he's the one who needs to die!"

Anna cocked an eyebrow, "He's my husband, honey. No deal." The redhead slashed at the Rose Blade, who barely had time to block the strike. She tried to circle back around to land another hit on Robin, but she was blocked again. Frustrated, Dahlia decided on a new strategy: she shifted as quickly as possible from one side of the Grandmaster to another, attacking with every ounce of speed her feet could support so that Anna was forced to do the same. Before long, Anna was panting and becoming more lethargic in her defense of her husband.

"Heh..." the Rose Blade taunted, "You're outmatched, you old crone. You haven't the vivacity to keep pace with me."

"I'm gonna kick your scrawny little tail for that, kid," Anna panted, still holding up her blade.

"Anna," Robin declared, "this isn't going to work."

"Whaddya mean?" the merchant continued to pant, "I got her right where I want 'er."

He smiled, "I know, but, all the same, I think we might be fighting ineffectively."

"Oh?" she also smiled, "What do you suggest, Mr. Master Tactician?"

"How about a little mutual support?" he suggested, producing the Levin Sword she had given him.

"I like it," she acceded.

"If the two of you are quite finished...!" Dahlia ran at the pair again, but she was interrupted by Anna once more. As she tried to circle around again, Robin raised the Levin Sword skyward and a bolt of lightning trailed after the Rose Blade. She was forced to interrupt her run to dodge the shock, providing an opening for Anna to slash at her. She blocked the attack shakily, eyes widening. Robin repeated his gesture, and this time the lightning found pay-dirt, hitting and shocking the rose-haired woman. Anna followed up, striking Dahlia in the stomach before her blade was shoved away. "This is impossible!" she shouted, "You're just two old bags! How?! How are you so resilient?! Why don't you just die?!"

Robin pointed his Levin Sword and Anna did the same with her own blade. "If all you see when you look at us is two people," Robin chuckled, "You're laughably naïve."

"S-Shut up!" she shouted.

"I feel bad for you," Anna frowned, "You have no idea what a healthy relationship looks like, do you?"

"I said shut up!" the Rose Blade rushed them. She was tripped up by Robin, who raised his blade again and shocked her.

"You don't know what it's like to be something more than yourself."

"To be in perfect synchronicity with another body."

"To be two parts of the same whole."

The woman rose to her feet slowly, bleeding, scorched, and growling. Suddenly, the pair noticed something had changed: the girl's hair was no longer pink. The rose-colored locks had been replaced with a jet black that allowed the raindrops upon it to glitter like tiny diamonds. "Y-You two..." she roared, "You don't know anything...! You've never had hardship in your lives! You don't know what it's like... what it's like to not know what to do... When you have a hard decision to make!"

"You're wrong," Robin told her, "We've faced any number of difficult decisions, and we've done so together, because we make one another stronger."

Her eyes widened with fury, "Spare me your fairytale garbage! It's so easy for you to judge from your pedestal, your charmed life... If you were in my shoes, you'd know that I can't... I can't be forgiven!"

Anna shook her head, "I don't know what you're so broken up about, hon, but I guarantee you that people will forgive and love you no matter what. You just have to be willing to forgive yourself."

"No," she stood, the rain completely drenching her night-black hair, "I'm sorry, bur I can't walk away. Not now." She raised her sword.

"Don't make us do this," Robin begged.

"Mr. Grandmaster," she said in a voice that seemed smaller than the one to which they had been accustomed, "My name... my name isn't Dahlia. I've always hated that disguise. My name is Cypress. Remember me, will you?"

Robin nodded solemnly.

The girl charged between the pair, receiving twin cuts along her stomach. Robin and Anna repeated the patter with a few more swipes until the blood of the Rose Blade stained both their clothes and her body fell to the muddied ground.

Robin and Anna panted in unison. Rain dripped down from their hair across their faces. Thunder began to clap overhead. They turned to face the iron gates of the castle. Each looked into the other's eyes. They wound their hands around one another's.

Water accumulated in puddles around them.


	30. Endgame: Sympathy for the Devil

The amethyst-haired man kicked the older silver-haired man to the floor, cutting across his chest as he fell. He marched over to Sylvia, swinging his blade and cutting her staff in two when she held it up to protect herself. His next attack also found her chest and she shrieked to the floor. The future Morgan launched a bolt of lightning, but the clairvoyant avoided it, surged forward, and aimed his blade at her stomach. She guarded, but he punched her face in turn, then raised his blade to impale her as she fell. Her present counterpart threw herself forward, causing Nihilus to falter only a second before he knocked her down, too. Both versions of Leo fired arrows, but these were also dodged. The amethyst-haired man surged up to each of them, snapped the bows in half, and drove the splintered wood into their arms. The future Sylvia whipped a vortex of wind at him in a desperate effort to stop the onslaught, but he endured the magic without moving, leapt forward, and stabbed her promptly.

Nihilus was panting, "Now... are you all just about done? As I said, you've only wasted your time. There is nothing—do you hear me?—nothing that can restrain me now! I am untouchable!"

"Gods... shut up," Morgan spat, rising.

The amethyst-haired man smiled, "Ah, this is so wonderfully amusing... That defiant look on your face, masked by all the dirt and blood, the vague terror at not knowing what, exactly, you're up against... I've seen that before, haven't I? It was way back when this all began. Such an innocent time, just a little bombardment of one port... and look what all it's wrought. Why didn't you convey my request, girl? Why didn't you tell your father and Chrom to lay down their arms? This could all have been avoided."

"My father," she breathed, "would never bend the knee to one as cowardly as you."

He scoffed, "Such undeserved arrogance. Why do you fight on, anyway? Certainly not for your father, yes? Goodness, dear, you don't even like him."

"I..." she hesitated, thinking on the remark.

"No matter," he decided, "your time is at an end. A shame; you could have simply walked away. A thief could make a decent life in my new world. I just don't understand... I gave you every chance. Even when I was prepared to kill you that day, I thought better of it. I decided to give you that message just to frighten your stupid family into relenting, instead of fighting with such stubbornness. Unfortunately, it seems I encouraged the very behavior I meant to quell. You, my dear, make pitiful little sense."

"Sorry," she said, "a product of my heritage, I guess."

"Indeed," Nihilus sighed, smiling. He pointed his sword, "and now, if you're ready?"

Morgan shut her eyes and braced herself, unable to lift her own sword. She croaked, "It really doesn't matter who it is... me, my father, anyone... one day, you're going to die. And then all your rhetoric and your pomp about the way the world ought to be... it'll die with you."

Nihilus frowned and ran at her, sword raised.

She heard the sound of a door bursting open.

* * *

The little redheaded girl descended the stairs, hair bouncing along her back as she hopped down. She smelled her mother cooking, steam wafting from a pot just on the edge of her periphery. More importantly, however, she scanned the remaining rooms and found her objective: her father was sitting in a heap of dark clothing, bent over a book in his armchair with silver lenses adorning the bridge of his nose. A common position.

The girl skipped over quickly and greeted him, waving to emphasize her mood, "Hi, daddy!"

His eyebrows jumped up a second before his eyes from the book, and his face shifted into a smile as he saw her face, "Hullo, Morgan. I wasn't aware you had come back in."

"You never hear me come in," she put her hands on her hips, "I'm not tiptoeing, or anything, you know."

He chuckled, "Maybe just my old ears, then. Anyway, did you need something?"

"Oh," her face brightened again, "As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you something."

"By all means," he offered his hand.

"When did you become employed as Chrom's tactician?"

The smile disappeared from his face, "It was when I was eighteen, give or take. Hard to remember, exactly. It was an odd time."

She nodded, "So, I wouldn't be violating precedent..."

"Morgan," his brow tightened, "why are you asking?"

"Isn't it obvious?" she shrugged, "Inigo's been asking me. He says Chrom's going to be leaving the throne before long, and so either he or Lucina is going to have to succeed him. In either case, he said he'd feel most comfortable having me take up the position."

"Why's that?" the Grandmaster demanded, "He's not planning to get involved in any wars, is he?"

"Well, no, of course not, but it's better to have a plan ready—"

"'But' nothing, you don't need to have anything to do with that."

"I want to help Inigo and his family!"

"You can help them while staying here."

"I've been studying your manuals for years!"

"I know, I read them to you, against my better judgement. But the question isn't one of experience, though you sorely lack that, too."

"How dare you! You're so full of it! You just don't want the last precious little chick to fly the coop! That's what this is all about!"

"Morgan, believe me when I say you have no idea what you're talking about."

"Shut up! Steven, Leo, and Sylvia all got to leave and do what they wanted!"

"And I watched each of them leave with a heavy heart and the utmost apprehension. But they were all older than you. And none of them were signing up for military service."

"Neither am I!"

Robin shook his head, "You haven't a clue what you're signing up for."

"Maybe, but I know I want to help Inigo, and if this is how I can do it, this is how it'll be done!"

"No, it's not," he stared at her intently, "Morgan, let me be very clear: becoming a tactician... isn't in your future."

Tears welled up in her eyes, "It's about Inigo, right? Or maybe it's me? Nothing I've ever done was good enough for you! I can tell, you always hated me! Just because I'm the youngest, because I couldn't talk well, or dance, or climb a building... you think everything I do is worthless! You don't care what makes me happy, you just want whatever makes you feel good about yourself!"

The girl spun around and stormed over to the door, flinging it open and slamming it shut. She sprinted out over the hill, her eyes blurry with tears.

"What I want," Robin said to himself, "is to avoid having to judge whether or not I can live with myself if my youngest daughter is killed by following in my footsteps."

Anna traipsed in, "Going to be one place short at dinner?"

"Looks that way," he sighed, "I may be able to run after her..."

"It's okay," she touched his arm, "She'll come back. She just needs to sort out her feelings."

"Quite," the Grandmaster rubbed his eyes, "she has a good many of them."

* * *

Morgan felt herself being picked up. She tried to open her eyes, but only the right one would respond. It opened halfway and squinted in the light, seeing a shadow hunched over her. "Gods damn it," the figure swore, "she's bleeding. ...They all are."

"I've got my staff," a voice from a different part of the room answered."

"Go to it," the figure closest to Morgan commanded.

Another voice shot up, "Ahem. I'm over here, if you don't mind."

"I'll deal with you in a moment," the figure looming over Morgan shot back with a definite edge, "Right now I'm speaking to my daughter." Morgan tried to open her eyes more. The figure seemed to take note, "Can you hear me, Morgan? It's your father."

"D-Dad" spilled out of her slackened lips.

"That's right," he said softly, "Listen, it's going to be okay. I've got your mom here, and we're going to put a stop to this."

"He's... so fast..." she breathed, "I... I'm feeling... really cold..."

His grip on her tightened, "It's okay, Morgan. Please, just hold on. You have to be there to take daddy's place if he's not good enough, okay?"

"I-I can't..."

"Yes you can. Your mother will be here to help you in a second, okay? Please, just stay awake."

"D-Dad... I'm sorry."

"You don't have anything to apologize for," Robin said, gently lowering the head of ruby-red hair to the floor. He kissed her forehead, "I love you, honey." He stood and stared at the amethyst-haired man.

He was grinning, "Finally, a real challenge. Grandmaster Robin, I don't think you have the faintest idea how long I've been waiting for this."

Robin said nothing.

"It really is a shame I have to end your life," the clairvoyant lamented, "Although I relish the opportunity. Matching your wits in Lieben was quite amusing. It will be a privilege to overtake you in person."

"What's your game?" the Grandmaster finally asked.

Nihilus laughed, "Have I not adequately explained it? I'm going to overthrow the world's governments and start a new regime... or a lack of one, more precisely. I'm going to allow total anarchy, so that the truth of human existence can be validated: id est, the strong will bury the weak. No classes, no money, no politics, just one man's strength against another's."

"Why?"

Nihilus paused, "You know, it's funny, you're the first person to ask that. You understand me so well... How to describe it? For years—all my life, really—I've been shunned for reasons other than my nature: for my birth, for my poverty, for my choice of profession... The only thing that ever consistently supported me was not a person, but an ability. My ability to exert power over others. No one respected me as a human, but when there was a sword pointed at their throats, their tone changed so quickly. Amusing, exhilarating, and utterly disgusting. Still, that hardship made me who I am. As such, I got to thinking I'd like a world like that. One where everyone would have to endure the same trials as me to even get a chance at life."

"You're an egomaniac," Robin spat, "You think you're the only one who's been poor? Who's been the victim of prejudice?"

"No, just the opposite. I know many others are suffering and have suffered similarly. But in my world, that suffering will give them the strength to be at the top of the food chain."

"You can't see the madness in a world of perpetual personal wars?"

"Don't lecture me about perpetual war; you're naught more than a stepping stone to that very notion. Think about it: what made Ylisse a superpower in today's world? Its economic prowess was notable, but didn't make up for the modest lives of most of its people. It was launched into power when Exalt Chrom attacked and conquered King Gangrel. And it grew when he "liberated" Valm by killing the Conqueror. And all that was built on the previous Exalt's crusade against Plegia. And you've played slave to it all, Grandmaster Robin. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of deaths around the world, all in the interest of one nation, or, more accurately, one man. That's perpetual war. Because Ylisse can't live without it. Because Plegia can't live without it. Because Valm can't live without it. Because their leaders can't govern a country without the distraction of war, else they would be deposed immediately. Do you understand? You're all more bloodthirsty than I've ever been. All I desire is a world where people can choose to enter into those conflicts. In your old world, they have no choice. It's a damnable thing, Grandmaster Robin: I took you for a lone wolf, but now I see you're merely another sheep to be shepherded."

Robin cracked his knuckles, "I'm finished talking to you."

Nihilus shook his head and shrugged, "Unfortunately, this battle will be much less interesting than I'd hoped: I already have the power of Naga at my side. Combined with my natural skill, I'm consummately invincible."

"You seem to know a lot about me, Nihilus," Robin said, "Tell me: how much of my story do you know?"

"Up to your last major achievement," the man stroked his amethyst hair, "before you disappear from the history books: your triumph over Walhart and subsequent return to Ylisse."

Robin smirked, "So then... you don't know everything."

"What?" the clairvoyant cocked an eyebrow.

"The funny thing about history books," Robin stepped forward, drawing his sword, "is that they can be so unreliable... whole chapters of a man's life may go unrecorded... Nihilus, you have no idea who, or what, I am."

"A grand boast," the clairvoyant smiled, "but bravado and bluster will last you only so long. He rushed forward and brought up his sword, vision going white for a moment. He saw the Grandmaster jump back to dodge his attack, and so he leaned forward to carry his momentum further.

He lurched forward and felt his feet skid: the opponent had blocked the strike with his own sword. He had misjudged. Robin pushed back on the blade, sending the clairvoyant stumbling back. The amethyst haired man shifted into a guard to block his opponent's incoming attacks. He halted a few in rapid succession, but the Grandmaster continued swinging, hitting his blade and pushing him back, inch by inch. At one moment, he saw the Grandmaster draw back and strike left. He changed his guard, only for Robin's blade to become embedded in his right shoulder. He shouted and kicked himself out of the hold, placing a hand on his bleeding shoulder. His panicked eyes must have betrayed him: "Something the matter? What happened to being invincible?"

He smirked, "Very well, I should have known not to to underestimate you. I won't hold anything back now." He leapt at the Grandmaster again and was blocked. The older man kneed him, punched him in the face, and slashed at him again, though he managed to weakly guard it. He growled and swiped at the Grandmaster rapidly, but heard the sound of metal reverberating with each strike. He shoved all his weight and power into one blow, which the Grandmaster also rebuffed, albeit with great effort. Robin pushed the attacker back with the extent of his own force, throwing the amethyst-haired man on his back. The man stood and dusted himself off while Robin was recovering. He stared at the Grandmaster a moment, then exuded a flash and disappeared. Robin heard footsteps behind him and turned blocking an overhead strike. He punched the flanking assailant in his stomach and cut him near his waist.

"Okay," the amethyst-haired man growled, "I'll bite: just what the hell are you doing?!"

"What do you mean?" Robin was smirking.

"D-Don't give me that blasted look! Why can't I see you?! Why are the visions..."

"Visions?"

"Yes, visions, dammit! Since I was a child, I've been honing my ability to anticipate people's actions before they make them!"

"So, I was right about your tactical proficiency. But what are you telling me? Are you saying these visions... aren't working?"

"N-No... but I should... I should... There's no way for you to be so fast!"

Robin shrugged, "We seem to be moving at a pretty normal pace to me."

Nihilus's eyes narrowed, "W-What...? But..."

"I have a theory," Robin drew his sword once more, "Maybe that little 'ability' of yours... maybe it's really a handicap. You've learned to rely on it, like a crutch. You don't know what it's like to actually anticipate an opponent, you just count on your 'ability' to do it for you. In short, you never learned to see with your own two eyes."

"Enough!" Nihilus shouted, "You! You're nothing, you hear me?! Your self-confidence is nothing but a façade!" He ran forward and struck at the Grandmaster several times more, this time hitting him successfully near the ribs. "There!" the clairvoyant grinned, "See? I'll admit you're more of a challenge than anyone I've fought before, but you can't escape my sight!"

Robin smiled, "Or maybe this is your first time fighting on even ground."

Nihilus growled and sprung forward, matching blades with his opponent once more. He varied between horizontal, diagonal, and vertical slices, but these were all duly impeded by the Grandmaster. They broke apart and Robin leapt forward this time, aiming a stab at the amethyst-haired man's heart. He dodged it and sent the old man sailing with a kick. Robin got to his feet in time to block another strike, hit his foe with an uppercut, and slashed along his arm, making him howl and drop back. They closed the distance again as Robin regained his footing: Nihilus now extended the Emblem to halt his opponent's strikes, giving him a speed advantage in raising his weapon, which cut along the back of Robin's shoulder as he missed a strike due to fatigue. They crossed swords again, Robin forcing his weight onto his opponent to keep him at bay. When the clairvoyant tried to duck, Robin slashed at him: a rivulet of blood streaked down the amethyst-haired man's cheek. He rose again and swung at his opponent's back, though Robin whipped around in time to stop the blow. Nihilus smashed the old man's face with his shield and stabbed him in the stomach. Robin groaned and kicked the clairvoyant's feet out from under him. He tried to stab in the same spot, but was deterred slightly by the man's own sword, which deflected the blade toward his hip instead. He kicked up and backed away.

The pair stared at one another, grasping at their wounds, red-faced and panting. Nihilus's fist shook and convulsed wildly and he took off toward Robin in a furious charge. Robin tried to block the incoming attack, but his opponent struck repeatedly with more force and momentum. Robin felt himself being pushed toward the wall. He inhaled deeply. As the amethyst-haired man launched forward with a snarling thrust, Robin stuck out his own sword. Nihilus realized the intent of the move too late to redirect his momentum: the pair met and their swords broke through each other at chest height.

* * *

Rain poured down as thunder clapped overhead.

Occasional clanks of metal were still heard from soldiers fighting. Bodies piled up in the mud. Though the conflicting forces continued to cut and stab with the same ferocity and vindictiveness, their movements were heavy and sluggish. One man would strike and miss, only to be planted in the ground in short order by two behind him. Groans of the dead and dying began to drown out the sounds of fighting.

The children looked to their parents, who were looking at each other, their cheeks red and their eyes ashen. Water soaked every inch of their clothes and skin. More bodies fell with a splash. The air was getting cold.

The dead Shepherds had been moved, but were still becoming colder and being soaked through by the rain. Mud congealed around them.

The thunder rolled on.

* * *

Robin gasped. He felt the blood ebbing from his chest, but also felt a warm sensation around it. He assumed it must have been Anna trying to mend the wound. He looked forward and saw Nihilus several feet away, fallen, but with his eyes open. The Grandmaster glanced at the Emblem on his arm and saw a gleam. He inhaled deeply and crawled forward.

"Robin," he heard, "stop! I have to fix this now!"

He continued crawling forward, pain stabbing into his chest with each tweak of his muscles. His arms burned. His breath died in his throat. He kept reaching for handfuls of the floor.

"Robin!" the chiding voice issued again, "Stop! What are you doing?! You'll die!"

Nihilus moved, too. He put his hands down to the sides, eyes daring the Grandmaster.

Robin inched forward more, hands shaking, cold running down his neck.

He felt Anna try to hold him, arms on his shoulders, "Stop it, you idiot!" Her voice was stained by her tears, "Quit moving! You're gonna bleed out!"

Robin kept moving. He dragged himself out of his wife's grip and pushed forward. He was pinned to the floor by his own weight. He stopped and cried out in pain and a spasm of breathing. Blood spilled onto the floor. He kept moving.

"Robin!" she pleaded "Stop!"

He put another hand forward and dragged himself. Nihilus's eyes tensed.

"Forget about him! You'll die if you don't stop, don't you get it?!"

Robin shoved himself half his body's length forward, in arm's reach of the clairvoyant. He reached out.

Chrom, Inigo, and Lucina, two of the three of them limping, burst into the room through the metal door. Robin tried to shout, but the words simply gurgled in his throat. Nihilus moved his arm. Chrom stopped and shuddered, moaning sharply. A knife had left Nihilus's hand and entered the exalt's chest. He fell and Lucina shrieked. Robin's vision became black, hearing the cries of his wife and Chrom's daughter.

Morgan's eye stared as her mother frantically knelt before her father.

* * *

The port was still, save for the sounds of the rain and thunder overhead. If anything, the ambience kept everything quieter, though no one would dare to utter a word during the somber occasion. Black, funereal vestments adorned every body in the small space. A monument stood before them all, and looked over them. A simple stone, it was etched with names. Several hundred names. Florists. Priests. Sailors. Soldiers. Bakers. Friends. Parents. Children.

They said their goodbyes amid the ruins of the destroyed town.

* * *

Robin's eyes flitted open again. His senses returned. He was walking. Shakily, he was walking. He was supported under each arm by two other figures, who were walking in tandem with him. He looked ahead and saw a rainbow of mirrored faces: two Stevens, two Sylvias, and two Leos. He felt compelled to smile. Both sets of faces were familiar, albeit for different reasons. Or, he would have smiled, if he were able. His vision was clouded, and he was completely deaf to the outside world. He saw a few of the faces glancing back at him happily. He felt rain pour down on him. He felt cold. Shadows were moving far down along the plain, where the water was surging. More faces gradually joined the group, faces he could not see. But on each side he could see two heads of ruby hair. Anna held him from the left, and Morgan did the same on his right. It seemed she had managed to save them. He was ineffably gracious.

They were all of them joined in exiting the castle in a wide group. If not for the purple-black visage of the sky casting indigo shadows on the sod below, they would have looked like a veritable parade procession. The Grandmaster stood at their center, of course, bordered by his youngest daughter and wife. He was walking heavily, although he wouldn't be walking at all without the help of the taller and shorter redheads. He had grown accustomed to the feel of his wife's touch upon him, but the girl's... The feeling of her little fingers struggling to wrap around his hand, or any part of his arm, was a sensation he hadn't felt in... he couldn't remember how long.

But though he wished that feeling created joy, it did not. Any positive sentiment was replaced with an abject horror, seeing the young girl half a step ahead of him. He heard an eagle cry overhead, and dutifully looked up to a white and gold break in the dark clouds. He examined the hole, predicting that the bird would pierce it, but saw nothing. Instead, as his eyes fell back to the ground, the images of his family were submerged in water for this instant; separate, vague shapes without fixed forms that clung to an invisible periphery. When he looked forward now, he saw grave faces. A rash man with blue hair, bulky, but with a fair-hearted look about his youthful eyes. An older man with silver facial hair and a gleaming mane on top, lamenting a fallen helmet. A sneering youth with leaf-green hair: he pulled out a sword, gauged it, and threw it away, frowning. A boy with snow-white hair crying, kneeling at the feet of an old, chrome-haired figure who shook his fist at something unknowable in the air. A woman, staunch and frowning, whose rose color drained away to black; she scowled in detestation before looking on to the next figure. A young man with amethyst hair, smiling, surrounded by the faces of friends laughing, quibbling, and smacking each other roughly on the back. The man's face sunk in the ash-gray of the grave as he clutched his heart. And when the Grandmaster looked down, his hand held a blade that pierced the man's flesh. But now the man was a boy, tears cleaning his dirtied face. Robin froze and stepped back.

Anna and Morgan both felt themselves lurch forward, hair falling over their faces with the backward momentum. Each turned their heads to the Grandmaster as the procession marched on without them. "You okay?" his wife giggled, jostling his arm. Robin didn't hear the words, but he did see the glow of her smile, centered between two scarlet eyes. His shoulders sagged.

"Coming, dad?" Morgan imitated her mother, yanking his arm. "Dad" came through, finally, and Robin watched as his youngest daughter's face also lit up with a smile.

Maybe that was enough.

The Grandmaster felt his legs weaken and his eyes became unbearably heavy. A film coated the world, but he could still see the little redhead's smile.

Robin fell forward into the mud with a heavy thud, and an accompanying splash. Morgan yelped as she saw him fall and rushed to help him back to his feet. But the limbs were yielding, drained of spirit.

Morgan furiously shook her father as her mother knelt down and a few others began to gather. Morgan felt the corners of her eyes, followed by her cheeks, grow hot and wet.

* * *

Morgan was wringing her hands, more out of boredom than worry. She was too anxious to be upset or concerned. At least, that was what she told herself. It was difficult, waiting as she was behind that curtain. She knew when it opened that there would be hundreds, if not thousands of eyes on her. She also knew that it had been less than a week since her father had died, and already so much had changed. Among her family, everyone had taken the news hard. No one more so than her mother, of course, but only Morgan knew that. For everyone else, Morgan included, she put on her clinical saleswoman's smile and thanked people for their sympathy. But Morgan heard her deep into the long nights where she mumbled muffled cries and sobs into her bed. She never mentioned anything the next day, of course.

Tension was rising from the other side of the curtain, she could feel it, even though she could see nothing beyond it. Her mother had returned from off-stage and was presenting her with a purplish-black coat. She didn't understand what she was being given until she stared at it more closely: three eyes trailed up each sleeve, the sign of an ancient deity in a religion forgotten to her time, gold stitching and buttons along the front, and a collar that rose almost beyond the neck. She hesitated to take it from her mother's fingers. "Are you sure you're ready?" Anna asked.

Morgan took a deep breath, "Yes. I'm ready."

"All right," Anna presented the cloak, "be careful with it, but wear it with pride."

She accepted the gift and flung off the greenish jacket she had been wearing to replace it with the cloak over her tan cotton shirt, looking every bit her father when the ensemble came together. She noticed, with both mild contentment and disgust, that the item smelled like her father. It seemed as though a warm aura overtook her as she donned it, and her mother smiled when she turned around to model the costume. She could see tears in the corners of her mother's eyes.

Anna redirected her daughter's attention to the stage, where the curtains were beginning to shift. The redhead scooped up her daughter's clothes and hopped off the edge of the dais, turning around to watch her from behind. Morgan slowly stepped out onto the half of the dais that had been blocked by the velvety curtains, seeing the faces of a few of her friends out in the crowd, including Inigo, who was doing his best to beam at her from the front row. She understood why his smile looked forced. She looked to her right and saw the coffin that contained her father's body and sighed.

"My father," she began, was a curious man."

"He was an enigma to everyone he knew, no one could quite parse him. His best friend, his wife, even his children... Not a living soul could ever understand what my father wanted from his life. Maybe he was still deciding for himself. I freely admit that we had our disagreements; no family loves each other unflinchingly at every moment. It's normal to get upset. We fought, and I regret it."

"But the one thing I know for a fact my father never desired was pain. Not for himself, of course, but also not for anyone else. I read through every one of his journals, so I know his thoughts as if they were my own. He never took pleasure in ending another life, even from the baleful King Gangrel. Every drop of blood was a poison to him. The death of each man diminished him. Perhaps that's why there was finally so little left."

"He was a man who didn't talk much, at least, not when it was unnecessary. He loved a good steak. He despised the taste of beets, but he would eat them anyway in his growing age to appease the henpecking of his wife. He loved her, too, more than I could ever claim to describe. Those feelings are best left between them."

"If I knew anything about him, it was as a father. He took good care of his children. He made sure they attended school, gave them wonderful meals, studied with them and worked on assignments into the late hours, groaning all the while, but never hesitating to help those young folks he welcomed into his home. And he waved a teary goodbye to each of them when they parted, some on better terms than others. All the same, whatever our relationship, we would return to him, because he had given us our very lives, and he was a man you simply did not say 'no' to. We could always return, but we could never truly leave him."

"And," her voice wavered," I know that he'll never leave me. Even when I might want him gone, something from him dwells within me, a voice, not quite a conscience, but a guiding sound, a warm tone that lets me know someone out there is listening, and he wants to help."

"My father was a curious man, and none of us who knew him may ever understand what it was he really wanted out of life, but I can say this much in confidence: he loved all of us... even me, above all else."


	31. Epilogue: Weapon of Choice

Epilogue

Lucina sighed as the blade was presented to her. She felt terrible looking at the heirloom: it was a symbol of a past that didn't need to exist. A past she had the terrible, sinking sensation she had contributed to. Thinking of the days not long ago when she had pestered her father to accompany him on their "diplomatic mission" gone awry, there was something awful, almost reviling about the blade and shield that she nonetheless accepted as was her duty. It was a necessity to return Ylisse to its feet after the devastation that had visited its people, and so, body still aching from the scars of battle, Lucina stepped up to overtake her father's duties to watch over her beloved country and allow her mother due time to grieve away from the public view. Inigo was present at the ceremony, along with all of the other children of former Shepherds, bidding farewell to the man who had united them all in one way or another. Lucina herself whispered no words to her father when she approached the open casket that afternoon. She merely placed a hand on his shoulder, eclipsing his Brand and staring into his shut eyes with her own.

* * *

Lucina: Tears in Exaltation

Lucina did a very respectable job returning Ylisse to proper shape after the passing of her father. She was never quite the same woman after the day Chrom left the world, but her calm, resilient poise eased tensions quickly and gave Ylisseans confidence in their new ruler. She upheld her father's goals of striving for piece and liberty of life for all Ylisseans, but forever dreaded the day she might have to once more pick up the sword. She married late into her life and gradually walked away from the throne with some relief. It is said she settled down with a roguish but kindly man from a valley that hides in the clouds...

Inigo watched his sister walk up to the casket and perform her gesture. He frowned, cursing the fact that he had lost his chance to protect his father only because he had been too slow and weak. He was supposed to be a prince, and yet he had failed to protect his father, the very exalt from whom he was descended, and now life would never be the same. Lucina would be frowning a lot more. Even his cousin seemed to lack his general penchant for posturing and proclaiming to adopt a silent air that made him feel sick. He walked up to his father, too, but could muster no words. He clutched his father's hand and felt a tear pool in his eyes, shook his head, and walked away. This was a day he would never forget.

Inigo: Hopeless Romantic

In the years following the attempted coup, Inigo regained his bright, flirty attitude and made shows of dancing with the various ladies who attended his sister's royal balls. In his heart, he wondered if he could ever measure up to the massive shoes Chrom left for him to fill, and so he was relieved when Lucina aimed to take the job for her whole life. Secure in his freedom to leave the past behind, Inigo continued to serve his sister dutifully in her court, but had the tendency to wander away from the capital for long periods of time, seemingly having disappeared. Stories would return eventually about a handsome fighter who had the air of royalty stopping by to rescue those in peril and who seemed to wander in and out of space and time. Spurious claims suggested he traveled with a similarly mysterious redheaded thief.

Olivia foreswore her nature when she broke down and cried in front of all the mourners at Chrom's funeral. She felt not hot rush of shame following that outburst: she could hardly bear to see what had become of her husband. She braced herself against her children for the rest of the afternoon, hardly able to stand on most occasions. When her tears dried, she sorely missed her husband still, and she knew she was not prepared to stand before her people and address them as their queen...

Olivia: Wilting Violet

Shortly after Chrom's death, Olivia abdicated the throne to Lucina. She never seemed to recover from the loss of her husband, but she remained in the castle all her life, tending to her children and earning the love of all the castle's staff with her sweet, maternal behavior. Her own funeral was a quiet occasion, observed only by close family, and it featured a much remarked-upon dance performance by her son, who blushed the whole way through but performed flawlessly.

Along the room's back wall, a myriad of soldiers were all waiting for their turn to say their farewells to their captain and, in some cases, exalted ruler. Each of them approached the casket with a burdened heart, but to what degree they released those burdens would remain forever with them.

**The Legacy Shepherds:**

Gregor (died in Chapter 21), Cordelia, and Severa: An Imperfect Home

Cordelia was deeply anguished by her husband's passing. For days, if not weeks, she remained mute, as if by a curse. She could not bring herself to part with the aging mercenary, and when she could remain home no longer, she returned to training Ylisse's Pegasus Knights with a renewed, silent determination that pressed each soldier hard. Consequently, the Pegaus Knights became the fittest institution in all Ylisse, and their tremendous physical prowess, put on display in many a public festival or parade, drew the attention and wonder of observers the world over. Severa was distant from her mother, too, but their relationship gradually warmed and the ill-tempered girl eventually succeeded her mother in serving Ylissean royalty.

Stahl, Sully, and Kjelle: Knights of the Round

Stahl and Sully continued to serve as the left and right arms of the Ylissean military long into their old age. Each gradually rubbed off on the other, Stahl becoming a bit firmer in his handling of serious matters and Sully learning to relax. Kjelle followed her parents' example and continued to become a respectable general in her own right. Due to their ability to survive so many battles, it was rumored that the family wore invincible suits of armor. After the passing of each member, their armor was highly sought after by collectors and treasure hunters.

Gaius, Maribelle (died in Chapter 26), and Brady: Sweet Escape

Gaius thanked his lucky stars for escaping another conflict alive and, resting on Maribelle's money, retired from thievery, in part out of penance, but also because years of consuming sweets habitually took a toll on his physique. Brady visited when he could and tolerated his father with a banal dignity that made his mother proud. Records indicate he visited the Ylissean Pegasus Knights in the midst of their training frequently, but that he otherwise kept to himself.

Frederick (died in Chapter 26), Sumia (died in Chapter 26), and Cynthia: Clipped Wings

Cynthia's positive outlook took a hit after the tragic death of both her parents. Her life seemed empty in that moment, but she was determined to go on living, and so she found a cause in the form of the Ylissean Pegasus Knights. There, she trained alongside Severa under Cordelia and perfected her technique while disguising her sorrows. She was visited by Owain, whose company and love of theatrics slowly brought the smile back to her face. Frederick and Sumia were given heroes' honors at their burial, and became the pillar to which knights and pegasus knights of Ylisse now aspire.

Ricken (died in Chapter 21), Nowi, and Nah: Dragon Soul

Nowi lamented the loss of Ricken all her life, which, somewhat more happily, lasted a long time. There were few pureblood manaketes left in existence, but as centuries passed, Nowi found more and more playmates among those with small quantities of dragon blood in their veins who grew to revere her kind as great sages of old. She remembered her comrades fondly and imparted what lessons she could to the younglings. She also played a lot of hide-and-go-seek. Nah went on a pilgrimage to visit Tiki, who had returned to her rest. Nah devoted herself as an apostle of the Divine Dragon's Voice and was revered by surrounding Chon'sin dynasties. She took a husband and continued to faithfully serve her kind for centuries.

Kellam (died in Chapter 26), Miriel (died in Chapter 21), and Laurent: Peace and Quiet

Laurent grieved for both of his parents in his own way, continuing his mother's research and keeping his father's predilection for remaining unseen. Strangely, Laurent's biggest contribution to history seems to have been a concerted effort to increase the records of his father's existence. He never explained exactly why, but it is believed that he succeeded, for Kellam's service to Ylisse is well-documented and admired by aspiring knights. Otherwise, Laurent seems to have contented himself by traveling the world and inciting breakthroughs in the natural sciences.

Virion, Cherche, and Gerome: Coming up Roses

Much to his relief, Virion passed the rest of his tenure as Duke of Rosanne in peace. He was not particularly beloved by his people for a myriad of reasons, but he retained Cherche's (albeit bewildered) affection, and that satisfied him. The pair worked to restore their dukedom with considerable effort and, with time, settled into a more comfortable life. Gerome succeeded them and garnered adoration from Rosanniens both for his firm nature (in stark contrast to his father) and for his handsomeness, which was a topic of discussion in the homes of many Rosannien women. Records indicate he undertook a very fruitful political alliance with Ylisse.

Henry, Tharja, and Noire: Dark, Darker, Yet Darker

Henry and Tharja returned to their respective thrones in relative contentment, although Tharja was devastated for several weeks, possibly even months, after learning of Robin's passing. Still, she understood her obligation as queen, and the pair continued to reform Plegia from the barbaric ways of its past. Eventually, Ylisseans and Plegians became more amicable neighbors, and the culture and economy of each nation flourished. Noire didn't have much talent for governance, nor a desire to be in the limelight. When her parents passed, she abdicated the throne to a local governor who had shown great promise. He extended the benevolence of his predecessors, and Noire gradually, happily shrunk into obscurity.

Lon'qu, Panne (died in Chapter 18), and Yarne: Cold, Hard, and Undying

Lon'qu returned to pick up the pieces of Regna Ferox that remained, forever ashamed to have failed in succeeding Basilio. He resigned himself to silence, mostly, and did what he could to rebuild his country. It took time, but a unified Ferox was eventually re-established shortly before his rule expired. When Yarne took up the throne, he did so more happily than he did any battlefield, and he was admired for his strength in spite of his delicate nature. In fact, the once-militant Feroxi, scarred by the consequences of so much conflict, rallied behind their mild-mannered taguel master as a new hope for peace in their time. The taguel race lived on, and taguel became recognized as fierce warriors and are highly respected in Feroxi culture.

Donnel, Lissa, and Owain: Of Princesses and Paupers

Lissa joyfully watched her niece take the reins, thankful that she would never be forced to try and fill the shoes of her brother and sister. When it became clear that Olivia's assistance and maintenance was more than enough, Lissa and Donnel left the castle and returned to Donnel's village, where they lived the rest of their lives out quietly but in good company. Owain went on to be a successful writer and performer, occasionally putting on shows with accompaniment from Brady. Children grew up emulating the eccentric mannerisms of the legendary Owain Dark as the man himself seemed to fade out of history.

Libra: Fair-hearted Atonement

Not much is known about Libra's whereabouts after the day he let Morgan out of his door. Most accounts say he survived the attack, but disagree as to where he went thereafter. Some claim he returned to the port town to restore its broken spirit and ran an orphanage for underprivileged youth, some claim he silently rejoined the clergy and made no significant marks on history, and some say he became disappointed with the warlike ways of his world and left to travel on his own. Of those last reports, some say Libra chose to quit the sinful world altogether, though this is unlikely, given his religious devotion. In any case, the priest was never heard from again.

* * *

"Setting sail soon?" Steven inquired, walking up beside his brother. Water lapped at the dock as well as the ship itself as the assassin seemed to watch the waves rise and fall in the dance of orange and purple that made up the horizon.

"You guessed it," he nodded, lazily tilting his head back and rubbing his neck, "the Brotherhood is gonna need me, now more than ever, probably."

"You think others will try to take advantage of the coup?"

"Seems only logical, doesn't it?"

"Quite. I don't suppose you plan on visiting any time soon."

"No offense, Steve," the assassin sighed, "but I work better on my own. I always have. It's not that I don't like you guys, I just don't have the same patience you do for all the jabbering between each other and... Oh... Damn it, you know."

"I do," the silver-haired man smiled, "All the same, don't be a stranger, okay? My door is always open, and I'm sure that goes for everyone else, too."

Leo looked out at the water for a moment more, lowering his head to watch the small waves break and lap against the stone walls beneath his feet. He blocked the sun from his eyes to watch it set before turning back to his brother, "You know, I was thinking about what happened to those guys... uh, those versions of us from the future, you know, particularly the other me..."

"Something he said?" the orator perceived.

"I guess. I just..." he sighed, "Did you ever think about what might happen if we weren't so close? I mean, we're not all peas in a pod now, but..."

"If mother and father weren't there to keep us together," Steven nodded, "Yes, I imagine things could be much worse. Families don't always stay together. In some way, I imagine that must be the heart of all strife: the breaking of bonds between brothers."

"I didn't ask you to get all philosophical on me, Steve," his younger brother rolled his eyes, "I was just asking you a hypothetical question."

Steven folded his arms, "Fine. Hypothetically, yes."

"Right," he lowered his eyes to the ground again.

"Did something else bring this up?"

"Huh?"

"It wasn't just seeing that other you, was it?"

Leo's eyes narrowed on his brother, becoming razor-sharp, "This has been a weird time for everyone. I was just thinking about old stuff. About how we could be dumb sometimes. About how I could be dumb."

"You were thinking about Morgan again, right?" the orator guessed. Leo's blank expression seemed to confirm it. "She still doesn't know. She doesn't remember. I never told anybody, Leo, it stayed between us, like I promised."

"I..." he hesitated, "I can't stop. I can't help but think, if you hadn't been there to intervene, would I really have...?"

"I don't think so," his brother shook his head, "You weren't that angry. But, in another life... Well, anything is possible assuming an infinite number of different worlds. Things can always play out differently. All we can do is rely on what happens in this world."

"What's that?" Leo pointed to a slight discoloration he noticed on his brother's exposed forearm.

Steven tucked it away, "Nothing, a little scratch from when I was a kid. I'm surprised you never noticed it before."

Leo and Steven turned their heads as the calls to board the ship were shouted out to the port. The assassin gathered himself and began to walk toward the gangplank, "Well, that'll be my cue. Take care of yourself, Steve."

"Sure. And let's not let anything stupid ever get between us," his brother added, "I know you prefer fighting to talking, but if we're going to fight, let's just have it out and get it over with, all right?"

Leo cocked an eyebrow, "Whatever you say, Steve." He climbed aboard the ship along with a small throng of other passengers. Steven disappeared into the crowd, rubbing the scar on his arm. The remnant of the one and only time his parents had used physical punishment on their children. When they discovered that Steven was trying to hurt his baby sister. He accepted the responsibility for the deed as a shocked, tearful Leo fled out of his parents' view. The orator buttoned up his suit and wrapped his cloak more closely around himself. It was getting to be cold out, and he had a long walk ahead of him. It was time to say goodbye.

* * *

Leo: Peacekeeping Killer

Leo continued his involvement with the White Talon brotherhood of assassins for several decades, as his name shows up in records documenting their affairs for years at a time. Apparently, he made a few visits to his family, but remained mostly with the Brotherhood. There are no records to indicate that he ever married or had children, and given the nature or the White Talon's affairs, most of the records of his existence are mere mentions of the name, and nothing specific. These records suggest he was promoted and served his cause dutifully, and one other significant detail: a drafted will was included in the documents, requesting that, in the event of his death, the Brotherhood pay all of his unreceived wages to his mother.

Steven: The Silver Son

Steven worked as an orator and political consultant for the rest of his life and was indispensable in the careers of many a politician over the course of the decades he lived. He visited his father's grave frequently and made stops to greet and entertain his mother, too. He eventually married his beloved, Sophie, and they had a son together whom Steven drilled in scholarly ways as well as physical activity. Steven turned out to be a very nurturing father, if a bit of a taskmaster, and his son would go on to have a promising political career of his own. In the twilight of his life, Steven became a much-beloved author of nonfiction. His most popular account was a description of the life and times of his father, the legendary Grandmaster Robin.

* * *

Morgan folded her arms and smiled at her sister, "Leaving so soon?"

Sylvia smiled back, "Places to be, people to please. Sorry, Morgie, I don't mean to leave you alone."

"It's fine," she assured her, "I get it. I guess it was kinda silly for me to get used to you guys being around. It can't be like that anymore, can it?"

"Don't make me cry, Morgie," her sister complained, "It's not fair; you've got those big puppy dog eyes."

"Sorry," the redhead giggled, "I'm just... I guess, in a way, I'm kinda sad it's over. Is that wrong?"

"Insofar as you're gonna miss your siblings, I don't think so," the performer grinned, "If you're talking about the killing, I might need to disagree."

"Oh, shut up," Morgan chuckled. Her sister did the same and loaded a few more items into her satchel before closing it up and slinging it along her shoulder where it stood out against her periwinkle cloak.

"For what it's worth, I'll miss you, too," Sylvia conceded, "You guys are always in my thoughts when I'm performing. I see you right there in the audience."

"Yeah, well, don't let me hold you up," the redhead waved her off, "Go be a big star, just make sure to tell me and mom about it when you get back."

"Speaking of," she paused, "about dad..."

"I can take care of it," the thief nodded, "don't worry about it. Now, get going, or you'll miss your ride."

Sylvia nodded, smiling, "All right, but before I go..." She pulled a goldenrod handkerchief out of her pocket and swirled her hand around the fabric like she was stirring something, "A little gift for my favorite sister."

"If this explodes and sets my hair on fire again, no magic will be able to fix what I do to you," Morgan quipped.

Sylvia shrugged, "That happened, like, twice. Okay, three times. Maybe four. Point is, abracawozow! Look there!"

Morgan did as she was told and watched the handkerchief be lifted from her sister's palm, and from underneath it, a dove flew out, flapping its wings loudly. Morgan watched it circle over her head for a few seconds, clutching something in its claws. Suddenly, it dropped the object for Morgan to catch and flew off. Morgan grabbed it: it was a card featuring a rough sketch of her sister (presumably self-drawn) that showed her sticking her tongue out in a taunting fashion. "Good for free admittance to any show!" it read, then, in smaller script, "Drop by sometime and let me dazzle you, darling!" Morgan stuffed the card into her pocket, then turned and realized her sister had vanished.

* * *

Sylvia: Showstopping Spellcaster

Sylvia's shows were enjoyed by audiences the world over for many years. Due to the secretive nature of her performances, little is known about her activity outside of performing. In particular, the story of her personal life is hotly debated: some say she remained a solo act all her life, others say she had a few flings every few years, but that they never worked out because the monotony bored her, still others suggested she did eventually settle down and retire from her magic act, but where and with whom are different questions altogether. Notably, spectators claimed that once in a blue moon, she was joined onstage by a man of similar height and facial features who sported a salmon-colored cloak.

* * *

Morgan pulled her cloak in tighter around herself as large flakes of snow stuck to her hair and her clothes. She looked back at her tracks in the mounds of icy white that led up to the house and sighed. It had been a long walk, and waiting at the door was a minor irritation, granted, but her patience was running rather thin. She saw an orange glow warmly filling the cracks of the door and let out a sigh and a shiver as she knocked on the gnarled wooden frame of the door. She waited a few seconds and heard nothing, so she knocked again, and in moments, the door swung open. On the other side of it was a woman, a woman with a reddish ponytail that was gradually fading and giving way to a silvery color, wrinkles under her eyes, near the corners of her mouth, along her cheeks, and in the middle of her forehead, possibly as a result of raising her eyebrows very frequently. Her eyes were half-closed, as if drifting to sleep, but they widened a bit when they filled with recognition, "Oh, Morgan! Come in."

The smaller redhead did so, and felt quite relieved to step into the glow of the house, alight by means of a fire that rumbled and crackled along the far wall. She kicked off her boots and slipped out of her purplish-blue cloak, hanging it on an unused chair and revealing the tan cotton sweater underneath. She was about to sit down on the sofa that was across from the fireplace when her mother caught her attention, seizing her hand, "Come on, I was making soup." Morgan obliged her and followed her to the table, whereupon she was quickly seated and treated to the wonderful aroma of chicken broth. A bowl was placed in front of her and she slurped it up hungrily, earning an amused smile from her mother. "You still eat like a pig, kiddo," Anna chided her, "didn't mom ever teach you any manners?"

"Too hungry," Morgan beamed, setting down the bowl with a relaxed exhalation that became visible due to the cold of the air. The smaller redhead continued to sit at the table and wait for her mother to finish before realizing that she should probably say something to break the silence, "Er, so, how's business?"

Anna frowned, "Uh... the store's been a little quiet, recently."

"Sorry."

"No, it's fine. How are you making out?"

"I've been... sorta busy, too."

"Of course."

The pair continued to sit in silence, Anna occasionally glancing at her daughter and Morgan listening to her mother eat her soup in the growing discomfort of the silence. Eventually, Morgan put her hand on her mother's shoulder, "You don't have to be all silent and composed with me, mom. I know you're taking this hard. It's all right, that's what I'm here for."

"Don't be silly," the merchant blinked, "Your mom's just fine."

Morgan could see her eyes were glassy, "Okay, if you say so. Just remember, I'm here even if you start feeling not-so-fine, got it."

Anna nodded wordlessly, "It's um..." The merchant cleared her throat, clearly holding back, "When you're ready, it's in the back room." After a moment, she added, "I'm sorry to make you do this, I just can't find it within me to..."

"It's okay, mom," Morgan squeezed her mother's hand, "I'll get started. Then I can tell you a story about a Valmese knight I met. And we can braid each other's hair like we used to."

"Okay, sweetie," Anna sniffed, "That sounds... nice."

Morgan stood and walked toward the back room.

* * *

Anna: One in a Million

Obviously, Anna was probably the individual most affected by her husband's death. Her shop closed for weeks, going on months, a gesture tantamount to standing on a cliff for the Anna family. Fortunately, she had the love of her many sisters and her children to carry her through that difficult time. The shop reopened and the merchant resumed her work as if nothing had happened, although she stopped attempting to change her appearance with the trademarked magic and remedies of her family, preferring to let her age show through. When she was confronted about this behavior in family meetings, she is reported to have said that the only one she wanted to impress with her looks was no longer around, and that she did not want the attention of other men, because only one mattered to her. She worked out deals with all of her children, including licensing Steven, Sylvia, and even Leo's services for the right price. Though she would never state it openly, she became one of the most successful Annas in all of history. When she passed, she was buried in her backyard, donating all of her money to charitable institutions throughout the realm. Legend has it that, thanks to her contribution, there was at least one day where no one alive went hungry.

* * *

Morgan placed her hand on the corner of the casket, feeling a certain imbalance to the air that was not brought on by the cold. She tried to place the feeling when, suddenly, she lifted her head and found a mirror image staring back at her.

Not a mirror image, perhaps, but a very similar vision. Same long, ruby-red hair, same cute, big, brown eyes, same soft, small fingers, but a greater sharpness to the cheeks and eyes. "You know," the figure said, "he was my father, too."

"Yes, you told me that already," Morgan nodded, "but Steven said in your future he died not long after you were born."

"True," the other Morgan agreed, "but that was a different man. I mean this one, here." She knocked on the casket, "This man was also my father."

"How?" Morgan inquired, "He didn't know you existed, how can you say that?"

The future Morgan shook her head, "You don't know the full story. You probably never will. Your father took care of me when I had amnesia. I woke up in the middle of nowhere, unsure of anything, save for the image of my father's face: _his_ face. When I was scared and surrounded by monsters, he saved me, and welcomed me into his home."

"How did you end up with amnesia?" the current Morgan wondered.

"The boys never told you? I guess I can see why. Well, you know my mother was killed giving birth to me. Leo resented me for that. Deeply, deeply resented me. When we made our plan to escape from Nihilus's hellish world and save our past, we traveled to Mount Prism to plead with whatever gods would listen, hoping we could emulate the actions of Lucina."

"Lucina? What did she—"

"Another story for another time. To make a long story short, a rift was opened, allowing us the chance to jump back in time. Steven and Sylvia jumped through, and I was next, but, suddenly, I heard a snap and everything went black. Everyone ended up at different places in the world, but our parents found me first, confused, but happy to see my father. By the grace of the gods, he took me in and kept me safe."

"Leo... Leo did that to you?"

"Right. I can understand why, though I'm not sure if he meant to kill me and had second thoughts or... what he was thinking, but years after the fact, he came clean and told me he regrets it, so I've chosen to forgive him."

"I see. So, what about after the war?"

The future Morgan smiled, "I spent many years in their continued company, your parents'—our parents'—but when baby Steven was born, I knew the winds of change were blowing. I knew I needed to go back to being on my own. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't deprive these people of their current child for a version that shouldn't have existed."

"I see. Well, I'm older now," Morgan supposed, "and mom is pretty lonely nowadays. Why don't you stay with us again? She's just in the other room, I'm sure she'd be thrilled—"

The future Morgan shook her head, "I appreciate the though, but no, I've moved on from that. I'm only here out of my last duty to the man I called father. After this, I'll simply disappear."

"But it doesn't have to be that way!" the current Morgan protested.

The older Morgan smiled, "I'm sorry, but there's no use fighting it; my mind is made up. It's funny... traveling through time... I've learned a lot about the way things must be. The entropy of life is staggering... one decision can take a million lives, or save just as many... It's dizzying to think about."

"So, why did you come, then?" the younger Morgan demanded, "Why risk being here at all, besides just to bury him?"

"Because I want to encourage you to make the right choice, Morgan," the future image of herself told her, "Because my future and yours... don't have to be the same."

The pair carried the casket out the back door and began the process of digging up the frozen earth as sharp, cold winds struck their faces.

Those winds carried past their faces, reddened by the chill, and flowed into the air, strung along by an invisible hand that scattered and recycled them gently, sending them into unseen lands and placing them beside unknown faces. And those winds would, like all other things, follow their course until they met their end, rolling alongside plains, mountains, children, houses, and through the ocean's gray waves, guided this way and that.

* * *

Future Children: Star-crossed Saviors

The incarnations of Leo, Sylvia, Morgan, and Steven who had emerged from a ruined future vanished without a trace after the incident. Their lives thereafter are unknown, as they seemed to make no contact with the outside world with their objective complete. One can hope, at least, that their lives were lived fully and happily in the absence of death and conflict. The body of the fallen Anna who had joined them was moved, so, presumably, she was buried. This was the last indication of the children's presence.

Morgan: La Vie en Rouge

Morgan spuriously continued her work as a thief for several years following her father's death, but did so mostly to finance her mother, for whose health and well-being she was concerned. When her mother seemed to gradually recover, the little redheaded girl abandoned her vocation in favor of traveling with Inigo. The two complemented each other well, and Morgan was highly successful in dragging Inigo out of his funk following his father's death. Morgan would never admit it, but her husband did the same for her in her grieving over her own father. The Ylissean royal court was overcome with joy when, several years later it was visited by a ruby-redheaded boy and a girl whose hair gleamed sapphire blue.

Robin: Grandmaster to All

In spite of his innumerable contributions to Ylissean history, very little information remains about the enigmatic tactician who guided the whole realm to safety at least twice. This seems to be because the tactician's estate made an effort to remove him from the public consciousness, fearing retribution from the many enemies his actions garnered. Ylissean royalty was complicit with this request, and now the name "Grandmaster Robin" has been reduced to a historical footnote, an entity that appeared from nowhere and guided Ylisse to safety, only to vanish back into the ether from whence he had come shortly after. Those who know of the Grandmaster and his exploits, however, do not despair of this fact, suspecting he would have wanted it that way. One thing remains known without question: he loved his family and peace. The extent of his success remains to be seen.

**THE END**


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